Laeimnle  Donation 


SCENARIO  WRITING 
TODAY 


BY 
GRACE  LYTTON 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,   1921,  BY  GRACE  LYTTON  PL  ATT 
ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION,  by  Florence  Hull  Winterburn     vii 
I.  How  SCENARIO  WRITING  is  DIFFERENT       1 

There  are  picturizing  words;  select  them  and 
reject  abstract  words.  Nouns,  adjectives,  and 
verbs  are  your  chief  tools;  use  them  wisely. 
Make  a  marionette  play  —  put  them  through 
acts  —  using  only  these  three  kinds  of  words. 
Scenery  and  action  tell  the  story  —  the 
characters  show  it;  the  thing  of  chief  impor- 
tance is  action. 

\  II.  How  AND  WHERE  TO  GET  SCENARIO 
IDEAS  15 

Scenario  plots  develop  from  feelings  not 
from  thoughts;  start  when  your  heart  throbs 
with  excitement;  newspaper  incidents;  gen- 
eral reading;  personal  experiences.  Story 
germs;  action  and  reaction;  helping  and  hin- 
dering forces.  Adam  and  Eve  story;  serpent 
destroyer  of  peace.  Two  unseen  forces  in  the 
world  everywhere;  use  them  in  your  stories. 

III.  THE  THOUGHT  BACK  OF  YOUR  STORY      29 

Why  a  story  tells  itself  in  some  particular 
fashion;  why  some  plays  take  hold  of  us  and 
others  do  not;  universal  appeal  of  a  great 
story;  the  human  touch;  questions  to  ask 
yourself.  The  Bible  the  storehouse  of  prob- 
lem ideas. 


570207 


iv  CONTENTS 

IV.  THE  PLOT  42 

The  simple  plot;  dealing  with  a  few  charac- 
ters; domestic  tone;  emotional  tone;  humor- 
ous tone;  heart  and  human  interest. 

V.  THE  PLOT  (concluded)  52 

Historic  and  costume  plays;  the  complicated 
plot,  dealing  with  race  problems,  with  na- 
tional interests,  with  religious  themes;  social 
problems. 

VI.  THE  CHARACTERS  61 

Drawing  your  characters;   how  characters 
develop;  making  your  characters  suit  the 
screen;  have  at  least  five  in  the  ordinary 
drama;  male  or  female  lead;  dual  roles;  all  '• 
star  casts. 

VII.  THE  CHARACTER  CAST  72 

Writing  your  character  cast  the  first  step  of 
your  scenario.  Model  character  casts. 

VIII.    LOCALE  AND  ATMOSPHERE  82 

Locale  must  agree  with  the  general  tone  of 
your  story;  it  should  suit  the  characters;  it 
furnishes  the  picturesque  element;  it  is  the 
background  for  your  drama;  unusual  or  strik- 
ing backgrounds  add  much  to  story. 

IX.  THE  COMMERCIAL  SIDE  91 

How  to  sell  your  story;  fitting  it  to  the  needs 
of  a  company;  proper  form  in  which  to  pre- 
sent a  story;  judgment  of  its  commercial 
value. 


CONTENTS  v 

X.  TITLES  AND  SCREEN  TERMS  101 

The  value  of  a  good  title;  what  constitutes  a 
good  title;  explanation  of  the  technical  terms 
used  in  the  studio. 

XI.  THE  ART  OF  PICTURIZING  108 

How  to  write  the  scenario  or  working  synop- 
sis of  five  thousand  words;  how  to  make  your 
mental  pictures  actual  so  that  they  will  stand 
out;  the  natural  method  of  visualizing; 
learning  from  the  child. 

XII.  WHAT  is  AND  WHAT  is  NOT  POSSIBLE  ON 

THE  SCREEN  117 

Omission  of  the  extraordinary  and  picturing 
of  ordinary  element;  true  stories  not  valua- 
ble unless  sufficiently  dramatic;  stories  must 
be  human  above  all  other  things;  consider 
the  expense  of  your  production  and  do  not 
suggest  wasteful  scenes;  regulations  of  the 
National  Board  of  Censors. 

XIII.  WRITING  THE  BRIEF  SYNOPSIS  OR  OUT- 
LINE 130 

The  art  of  condensation;  the  brief  Synopsis 
should  be  from  two  hundred  and  fifty  to 
twelve  hundred  words;  three  model  synopses. 

XIV.  CONTINUITY  AND  SCENE  PLOT  141 

Model  photoplay,  reproduced  here  by  per- 
mission of  scenario  company. 


INTRODUCTION 

IT  gives  me  pleasure  to  write  a  few  words  of  intro- 
duction to  a  volume  which  I  believe  to  be  one  of 
unique  worth  and  utility.  The  author,  whose  first 
book  it  is,  has  written  a  book  of  which  a  veteran  in 
the  art  of  writing  might  well  be  proud.  She  has  set 
forth,  in  a  clear  and  convincing  style,  the  principles 
of  scenario  writing,  not  from  the  theoretical  but 
from  the  practical  standpoint,  and  her  logical  plan 
of  unfolding  her  subject  makes  it  strikingly  differ- 
ent from  the  ordinary  essays  one  now  finds  filling 
magazine  pages,  claiming  to  teach  amateurs  an 
easy  and  quick  way  of  writing  the  screen  story.  To 
be  able  to  tell  that  certain  things  are  necessary 
is  simple  enough,  and  innumerable  authors  can 
write  exhaustive  treatises  about  the  technique  of 
their  art:  but  to  have  the  capacity  to  show  the 
steps  of  approach  to  success,  and  inspire  learners 
with  the  ambition  to  work  steadily  toward  it,  is  the 
very  genius  of  teaching.  This  is  what  the  young 
author  has  accomplished  in  Scenario  Writing  To- 
day, which  lives  up  to  its  title  in  a  thorough  and 
complete  manner,  omitting  nothing  which  is  vital 
to  the  topic,  and  dwelling  with  particular  emphasis 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

upon  those  special  parts  of  it  that  are  most  obscure 
to  beginners  and  that  most  need  elucidation.  The 
initial  chapter,  establishing,  in  a  wonderfully  lucid 
way,  the  difference  between  the  process  of  writing 
the  literary  story  and  the  screen  story,  is  of  great 
value,  being  very  original  and  unusual  in  its  de- 
ductions. The  picturesque,  colorful  style  of  the 
writer  adds  power  to  her  unfolding  of  her  subject 
all  through  the  book,  but  nowhere  more  than  in 
the  chapter  entitled  "The  Thought  back  of  Your 
Story,"  which  will  appeal  with  force  to  the  ama- 
teur who  has  struggled  hard  and  weariedly  to 
bring  his  dim  and  wandering  ideas  to  the  light  "of 
day.  The  chapters  on  "Plot"  are  not  only  well 
done,  but  finely  done,  and  should  stimulate  every 
student  to  labor  harder  than  ever  to  produce  ex- 
cellent work.  While  the  whole  tone  of  the  volume 
is  encouraging,  optimistic,  and  delightfully  sympa- 
thetic, Grace  Lytton  seems  to  utter  constantly  be- 
tween the  lines  an  exhortation  to  splendid  and  un- 
daunted effort;  so  far  as  her  personality  reveals 
itself  in  a  very  modest  and  unaffected  volume,  one 
divines  the  characteristics  of  sane  vigor  and  cheer- 
ful perseverance.  This  touch  of  personality  lends 
the  volume  particular  charm.  Unlike  many  educa- 
tional books  there  is  a  sprightliness  and  intimacy 
about  it  which  lifts  it  above  a  mere  treatise  and  se- 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

cures  for  it  a  place  on  the  shelf  where  we  house  pet 
books,  of  human  interest.  This  is,  perhaps,  most 
apparent  in  the  chapter  dealing  with  "  Locale, " 
where  the  author  gives  herself  some  little  liberty 
in  introducing  incidents,  and  also,  in  the  one  on 
"Characters,"  which  is  very  gracefully  done,  and 
contains  some  remarks  that  show  keen  critical  dis- 
cernment. The  "Commercial  Side"  is  of  particular 
value  to  beginners,  giving  suggestions  which  an- 
swer questions  constantly  addressed  to  scenario 
editors,  but  which  they,  naturally,  never  answer. 
In  fact,  Scenario  Writing  Today  should  be  looked 
upon  by  this  portion  of  the  working  world  with 
gratitude,  furnishing  as  it  does  a  brief  cyclopaedia 
of  up-to-date  knowledge  that  obviates  the  neces- 
sity of  the  perpetual  appeal  of  amateurs  to  their 
experience.  But  it  is  not  as  a  cyclopaedia  that  the 
book  is  of  most  value,  but  as  a  remarkably  success- 
ful attempt  at  systematizing  and  clarifying  the 
mass  of  recently  acquired  learning  upon  the  pro- 
fession of  screen  story  writing.  What  readers  will 
appreciate,  but  only  the  practised  writer,  perhaps, 
will  appreciate  at  its  full  worth,  is  the  "hard  writ- 
ing that  makes  easy  reading"  in  this  book.  The 
author  has  evidently  spent  unstinted  pains  upon 
the  task  of  simplifying  and  elucidating  her  subject. 
It  is  pleasant  reading;  any  one  who  begins  it  will  be 


x  INTRODUCTION 

likely  to  read  it  through  to  the  end  with  satisfac- 
tion as  well  as  with  profit.  And  I  take  pleasure  in 
repeating  that  it  may  well  be  received  by  the 
world  of  young  writers  on  the  art  of  scenario  writ- 
ing, with  the  cordial  welcome  due  to  an  exceed- 
ingly worthy  and  very  much-needed  book. 

FLORENCE  HULL  WINTERBURN 


SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 


SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

•    • 
• 

CHAPTER  I 
HOW  SCENARIO  WRITING  IS  DIFFERENT 

IT  does  not  seem  to  occur  to  the  beginner  in  the 
art  of  writing  scenarios  that  there  is  any  difference 
between  an  ordinary  short  story  and  a  scenario 
story.  If  any  at  all,  then  merely  the  slight  one  of 
writing  in  the  present  tense,  when  he  is  directing 
himself  to  the  screen.  But  in  order  to  prove  to  you 
that  there  is  a  real  and  positive  distinction  between 
literary  and  screen  story  writing,  I  want  to  ask  you 
to  imagine  yourself  away  back  in  the  early  ages  of 
the  human  race,  when  language  was  in  its  infancy. 
Story  telling  is  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  arts.  It 
began,  not  as  an  art,  but  as  a  pastime,  in  the  days 
when  men,  wearied  with  terrible  exertions  of  the 
body,  sought  to  repose  themselves  by  reciting  tales 
of  what  they  had  been  doing.  The  first  stories  were 
tales  of  battles  with  wild  beasts  and  with  other 
human  foes.  We  can  see,  in  fancy,  an  elderly  war- 
rior, sitting  in  front  of  his  hut  or  tent  at  evening, 
with  his  young  warriors  about  him,  describing,  in 


2  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

words  helped  out  by  gestures,  all  the  exciting  ex- 
periences he  had  been  through  during  the  day. 
Those  were  days  of  action,  and  we  may  well  believe 
that  those  tales  were  not  scanted  in  the  way  of 
thrills. 

Later  on,  following  the  course  of  man's  men- 
tal development,  came  the  liking  for  music,  and 
minstrels  sprang  into  favor.  Then,  all  during  the 
Middle  Ages,  these  gentle  bards  went  from  castle 
to  castle,  from  village  to  village, 

"Singing  in  the  dusk  of  evening, 
Singing  in  the  dawn  of  morning, 
Now  the  tales  of  oldtime  heroes, 
Tales  of  ages  long  forgotten." 

Language  in  those  early  days  was  made  up  of  sim- 
ple words;  object  words,  action  words,  describing 
words.  These  are  called  by  us  now  nouns,  verbs, 
and  adjectives.  The  other  parts  of  speech  were 
added  on,  as  they  were  needed.  But  the  three 
primary  ones  are  the  bones  of  all  languages.  Even 
without  the  aid  of  the  others,  they  are  sufficient  to 
present  a  simple  story.  To  prove  this,  try  telling  a 
tale  to  a  child  by  the  aid  of  a  few  dolls.  Have  in 
mind  a  simple  little  plot,  taken  from  Mother  Goose 
if  you  like;  or  from  those  ever-interesting  books, 
Grimms'  fairy  tales,  or  Hans  Andersen.  Have  the 
dolls  act  out  the  plot,  using  merely  your  nouns, 


SCENARIO  WRITING  DIFFERENT         3 

verbs,  and  adjectives  as  explanation.  If  very 
sophisticated,  your  child  may  criticise  your  efforts 
as  bald  and  infantile,  but  nevertheless  he  will 
understand  you.  It  is  probable,  though,  that  he 
will  be  pleased,  because  drama  pleases  all  natural 
minds.  But  you  must  be  sure  that  the  picture  you 
are  trying  to  give  is  plain  to  yourself,  or  you  will 
blunder.  A  good  story  teller  knows  that  in  order  to 
interest  he  must  show  to  others  what  he  sees  clearly 
in  his  own  mind.  He  must  make  pictures  out  of 
words,  in  order  to  create  a  vision  in  the  imagina- 
tion of  his  hearers. 

Now,  this  is  precisely  what  the  writer  of  the 
screen  story  must  learn  to  do.  But  before  he  can 
go  to  work  with  anything  like  a  possibility  of 
success,  he  should  get  possession  of  his  proper  tools; 
that  is,  the  right  words. 

Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  there  are  pictur- 
izing  words;  those  which  have  the  quality  of  show- 
ing forth,  of  bringing  before  your  eyes  a  story?  In 
the  simple  times  of  unlettered  men,  when  imagina- 
tion did  almost  the  whole  work  of  thinking  for 
them,  these  picturizing  words  were  their  only 
tools.  The  articles,  prepositions,  and  adverbs  were 
added  on  as  languages  grew  more  elegant  and 
dainty.  Emotions,  however,  expressed  themselves 
from  the  first,  through  interjections.  Oh  and  ah  are 


4  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

the  color  words  of  the  soul.  They  cast  an  outward 
reflection  of  what  is  passing  within  the  heart  and 
mind  of  men.  They  are  not  so  much  words  as  in- 
stinctive sounds,  and  stand  in  a  rank  by  themselves. 
Remark  in  passing,  that  ah  is  the  recognizing  word; 
the  sound  of  appreciation,  of  wonder,  of  pleasure. 
Oh  signifies  some  sort  of  repulsion;  that  is,  of 
mental  dissent;  or  else  deep  feeling  about  some- 
thing already  recognized.  It  is  a  faint  and  refined, 
yet  positive  distinction,  and  the  dramatic  writer 
cannot  afford  to  ignore  even  shades  of  difference 
between  words. 

These  two  word  sounds,  ah  and  oh,  may  easily 
be  signified  on  the  screen  by  the  form  the  mouth 
takes,  and,  added  to  appropriate  gestures,  have 
eloquence  that  helps  to  bring  points  home. 

To  return  to  the  significance  of  primitive  words; 
as  experience  widened  among  our  ancient  fore- 
fathers, their  story  telling  passed  into  more  com- 
plicated forms  of  writing  and  talking;  language 
became  more  abstract  because  it  dealt  with  ideas 
about  things,  and  not  so  much  with  the  things 
themselves.  If  you  will  take  a  little  time  to 
observe  a  group  of  children,  when  they  believe 
themselves  unobserved,  you  will  note  that  so  long 
as  they  are  talking  about  objects  —  such  as  trees, 
animals,  toys  —  their  speech  is  ready  and  easy. 


SCENARIO  WRITING  DIFFERENT          5 

But  when  they  touch  upon  fancies,  thoughts,  or 
ideas,  then  they  begin  to  lose  themselves,  and  have 
no  words  for  their  struggling  feelings.  But  by 
practice  this  awkwardness  passes  away,  and  soon 
the  child  who  could  not  say  anything  at  all  about 
what  interested  his  mind  becomes  eager  to  tell  you 
more  than  you  care  to  listen  to.  This  happens  with 
grown  people.  Education  takes  them  away  from 
the  objective  and  into  the  abstract.  There  are 
ages  of  ignorance  and  then  comes  an  age  of  knowl- 
edge. It  always  happens  that  when  people  have 
gone  far  in  one  direction  —  when  they  have  been 
given  over  to  wars,  to  superstitions,  to  romance  — 
there  comes  about  a  great  revulsion,  and  the  pen- 
dulum swings  about  in  the  exact  opposite  direction. 
About  a  generation  ago  science  was  in  full  career 
in  the  civilized  world.  It  ruled  everywhere,  and 
had  its  day.  Now  people  are  turning  again  toward 
the  more  natural  life;  the  artistic  expression. 
Color  words,  long  thrust  into  the  background  by 
abstract  words,  are  creeping  forth,  and  skilful 
writers  are  adopting  them  as  means  of  expres- 
sion for  the  latest,  as  it  was  the  first  art,  picturi- 
zation. 

The  screen  is  the  last  word  in  literary  art.  The 
screen  story  has  a  vocabulary  of  its  own.  As  yet 
few  people  realize  this,  but  the  sooner  it  is  gen- 


6  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

erally  realized  the  sooner  we  shall  have  really  good 
screen  stories. 

If  you  have  a  notion  that  writing  a  scenario  is 
merely  putting  your  tale  into  the  present  tense 
form,  rid  your  mind  quickly  of  that  error.  A 
scenario  is  a  picture  story  where  the  plot  is  un- 
folded through  action  of  the  characters.  The 
actors  must  be  drawn  in  a  certain  manner;  the 
whole  scene  must  be  presented  with  a  certain  art. 
Once  known  or  understood,  it  seems  simple  enough, 
but  one  has  to  learn  the  art  as  he  would  learn  any 
other  art. 

The  first  necessity  is  that  you  make  a  strong, 
vivid  picture  before  your  own  mental  eye  of  what 
you  are  going  to  try  to  represent  to  other  people. 
It  must  be  strong  for  you  or  else  it  will  seem  hazy 
to  your  audience.  If  your  imagination  depicts  your 
scene  clearly  to  yourself,  it  will  seem  clear  and 
strong  to  your  audience. 

I  suppose  that  people  differ  in  scarcely  anything 
so  much  as  in  the  amount  of  grasp  they  have  upon 
ideas.  To  some  people  everything  is  more  or  less 
hazy  and  confused;  as  the  shrewd  Sam  Weller 
observed  of  a  stump  speaker  —  "his  ideas  come  out 
so  fast  they  tumble  over  each  other." 

A  person,  however,  who  takes  time  to  clarify  for 
himself  the  thoughts  he  wants  to  utter,  will  have 


SCENARIO  WRITING  DIFFERENT          7 

the  ability  to  present  each  one  in  a  distinct  and 
convincing  manner;  it  will  "stand  out,"  as  an 
important  figure  on  a  good  background  stands  out, 
and  people  will  remember  it  after  once  seeing  it. 
But  if  you  seize  a  suggestion  that  comes  to  you, 
and  start  off,  all  eagerness,  like  an  infant  with  a 
new  toy,  sure  that  you  have  a  story  to  tell,  it  is 
almost  certain  that  you  will,  after  the  first  spurt, 
begin  to  wander  and  lose  yourself.  A  story  must 
not  only  seize  the  attention  of  an  audience,  but 
hold  it,  and  then  satisfy  it.  Curiosity  is  to  be  first 
aroused,  then  satisfied.  Now,  if  you  do  not  think 
out  your  problems  to  your  own  satisfaction  first, 
how  will  you  satisfy  your  audience? 

A  marked  difference  between  a  literary  story  and 
a  screen  story  is  that  in  the  first  a  moral  problem 
may  be  suggested  and  left  to  the  imagination  of  the 
reader  to  finish.  Some  fine  tales  are  constructed 
in  this  fashion.  But  the  screen  story  cannot  be  a 
smooth  narrative;  it  must  be  a  succession  of  starts 
and  thrills.  If  it  runs  into  smoothness  it  becomes 
tedious,  and  if  you  go  out  of  your  track  to  show  off 
some  little  piece  of  smartness  of  your  own,  you 
spoil  your  pictured  story.  A  moving  picture  audi- 
ence does  not  care  to  know  the  opinion  you  have 
about  what  it  is  looking  at;  it  is  after  the  develop- 
ment of  the  plot.  So,  a  scenario  may  not  philoso- 


8  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

phize  nor  drop  into  poetry,  except  upon  the  rare 
occasions  when  a  line  of  poetry  helps  out  a  pretty 
scene. 

Make  this  a  rule:  that  in  writing  screen  stories 
you  must  resolutely  keep  egotism  out.  First,  you 
are  to  think  your  characters,  and  next,  of  your 
audience.  A  story  must  make  a  pleasing  impres- 
sion, even  if  it  deals  with  sad  themes,  for  the  test 
of  a  scenario  is  the  approval  of  the  audience.  No 
story  has  more  interested  old  and  young  than  the 
Greek  myths.  For  instance,  the  tale  of  Ulysses 
saying  farewell  to  Penelope  and  sailing  away  on 
perilous  seas  to  rescue  Helen,  the  stolen  queen. 
And  how  frequently  has  the  picture  of  Penelope 
been  reproduced  in  song  and  story,  as  she  sat  in 
her  lonely  palace,  directing  her  spinning  maidens, 
and  ravelling  out,  over  and  over  again  by  night, 
the  web  she  spun  by  day,  and  dared  not  complete 
because  of  her  besieging  suitors,  who  were  ever 
put  off  until  that  web  should  be  done !  This  story 
has  always  inspired  enthusiasm,  the  slight  touch  of 
sadness  not  interfering  with  its  intense  dramatic 
interest.  All  great  stories  dealing  with  the  primal 
sources  of  joy  and  sorrow  in  the  human  race  have 
everlasting  appeal. 

Our  greatest  essayist  said  that  nothing  should 
be  written  with  one  eye  upon  the  audience,  but  he 


SCENARIO  WRITING  DIFFERENT          9 

wrote  before  the  day  of  screen  stories.  A  scenario 
writer  must  think  of  his  audience.  Whether  his 
aim  be  to  uplift,  to  please,  or  merely  to  amuse, 
he  must  never  forget  that  his  great  object  is  to 
interest. 

In  a  screen  story  you  have  three  things:  your 
place  or  scenery,  your  characters  who  are  to  live 
amid  these  scenes,  and  your  action.  Now,  the  first 
two  are  by  far  the  easier  to  create.  You  may  even 
imitate  things  and  people  you  have  seen  and  known. 
But  your  plot  must  be  your  own.  Even  if  the  sug- 
gestion for  it  comes  from  other  sources  than  your 
own  mind,  still  the  working  out  of  it  must  be 
entirely  yours.  So  far  as  scenes  are  concerned,  you 
are  in  a  way  compelled  to  describe  in  your  story 
things  that  have  come  before  your  own  eyes.  You 
may  have  had,  on  some  hurried  journey,  but  hasty 
glimpses  of  a  mountain,  a  river,  a  valley,  and  yet 
upon  the  retina  of  your  eye  has  been  made  a  quick 
impression  that  your  memory  will  reproduce  at 
call.  What  an  everlasting  impression  is  made  by 
the  experience  of  a  storm  at  sea!  If  you  have  ever 
stood  upon  the  deck  of  a  tossing  ship,  seen  upon 
frightened  faces  around  you  the  effect  of  the  rolling 
thunder  and  lightning's  play,  that  vivid  picture 
will  always  stay  by  you.  When  you  describe  a 
storm  you  will  not  do  it  in  dead,  unmeaning  words. 


10  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

You  will  picture  it  as  you  saw  and  felt  it  that  aw- 
ful day.  Beautiful  episodes  that  took  place  amid 
charming  country  scenery  will  repeat  themselves 
for  you  in  picturizing  words;  the  willow  tree  bend- 
ing over  the  water,  framing  the  face  of  a  laughing 
girl  who  gazed  into  its  depths  —  the  light  clouds 
that  seemed  to  you  then  blue  as  her  eyes,  the 
scented  breeze  that  played  with  her  light  hair  and 
fanned  your  own  pleasant  fancy  —  have  they  ever 
passed  from  your  mind?  It  is  these  vivid  experi- 
ences that  we  bring  to  bear  upon  our  description  of 
scenery.  Scenes  in  which  we  have  lived  through 
suffering  or  joy  impress  themselves  indelibly  upon 
us,  and  these  memories  are  our  storehouse  from 
which  we  draw  at  need. 

Scenery  without  figures  in  it  is  still  life,  and 
tells  no  story  except  through  suggestion  of  what 
might  be.  Sometimes  this  faint  suggestion  may  be 
elaborated  into  a  tale.  You  place  certain  images 
in  a  framework  or  set  of  circumstances  and  then 
put  them  through  actions  harmonizing  with  their 
setting.  But  all  this  is  mere  narrative.  The  way 
in  which  your  figures  act  decides  whether  they  are 
mere  lay  figures  or  characters  in  a  story.  If  your 
characters  are  to  become  alive,  they  must  reflect 
your  own  emotions  and  impulses.  You  must  live 
back  of  them  and  imbue  them  with  your  own  vigor. 


SCENARIO  WRITING  DIFFERENT        11 

Once  the  fire  of  life  has  been  kindled  in  them,  they 
will  go  on  and  act  out  their  own  story  in  the  setting 
you  have  given  them.  But  that  story  will  be  vivid 
and  real  according  to  the  amount  of  fire  you  have 
had  in  yourself. 

It  is  said  that  any  object  that  has  once  been  set 
in  motion  goes  on  forever.  An  impulse  has  eternal 
results.  Imagine,  then,  how  hard  you  should  labor 
to  give  the  right  impulse,  the  true  direction,  to 
your  created  characters.  What  they  do  must  be 
consistent  with  the  story  you  have  mapped  out  for 
them  to  portray;  and  not  only  must  their  conduct 
be  consistent  with  your  plot,  but  they  must  do 
nothing  trivial  or  silly  to  mar  it.  A  character  is  a 
brain  child,  and  a  real  author  comes  to  love  it 
and  cherish  it  tenderly.  He  will  no  more  allow  it 
to  commit  errors  than  he  would  a  child  of  his  own 
flesh  and  blood.  He  will  give  it  every  advantage 
to  show  its  abilities,  every  opportunity  to  win 
appreciation  and  praise.  A  scenario  writer,  how- 
ever, has  something  else  to  consider  in  creating 
his  characters.  He  must  make  them  possible  of 
representation  on  the  screen.  He  must  not  have 
his  characters  too  subtle  or  complicated  for  their 
nature  to  be  shown  by  their  acts. 

A  screen  character  maybe  shown  as  sorrowing,  re- 
membering the  past,  anticipating  pleasure  to  come 


12  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

—  imagining  —  or  being  moved  in  the  present;  but 
he  cannot  be  represented  as  carrying  on  a  train  of 
thought.  A  character  in  a  literary  story  may  be  de- 
scribed as  doing  the  most  involved  thinking.  Such 
writers  as  George  Meredith,  Thomas  Hardy,  George 
Eliot,  have  developed  many  of  their  characters  in 
this  way.    But  authors  possessed  of  dramatic  in- 
stinct have  always  developed  their  characters  more 
through  acts  than  through  words,  and  shown  them 
moved  by  feelings  rather  than  directed  by  reason- 
ing.   Charles  Dickens's  characters  were  frankly 
dramatic  and  all  his  best  works  have  been  drama- 
tized. If  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  pick  out  the 
stories  that  have  been  most  popular  on  the  screen 

—  the  stories  taken  from  books  —  you  will  real- 
ize that  the  authors  who  wrote  those  books  had 
some  love  of  the  drama  and  some  knowledge  of 
the  theatre.    Perhaps  unaware  to  themselves  they 
imagined  their  characters  acting  out  their  life 
drama  on  the  stage. 

Now,  what  these  authors  did  unconsciously  the 
screen  story  writer  must  do  intentionally.  In  your 
visits  to  moving  picture  theatres  you  will  certainly 
be  impressed  from  time  to  time  with  the  strik- 
ing features  of  the  actors  and  actresses.  You  will 
observe  the  manner  in  which  the  story  acts  itself 
out  through  them;  how  they  incline  to  their  parts. 


SCENARIO  WRITING  DIFFERENT        13 

The  impulse  will  doubtless  take  hold  of  you  to 
produce  something  that  is  in  some  degree  suited  to 
the  actors  and  actresses  you  admire.  Some  one 
once  remarked  that  every  great  story  or  poem  that 
had  ever  been  written  had  been  written  with  some 
one  person  in  the  mind  of  the  author.  It  is  cer- 
tainly true  of  many  poets,  as  is  seen  in  their  dedi- 
cations of  the  poems  to  those  they  loved.  Byron, 
Shelley,  and  Keats  kept  in  their  minds  an  almost 
passionate  ideal  of  the  real  women  they  described 
in  their  poems.  It  is  well  known  that  Shelley  wor- 
shipped Mary  Wollstonecraft  and  beautifully  said 
in  the  dedication  "To  Mary  "  of  the  poem  "  The 
Revolt  of  Islam  "  : 

"So  now  my  summer's  task  is  ended,  Mary, 
And  I  return  to  thee,  my  true  heart's  home." 

If  you  can  be  seized  with  an  enthusiasm  for  a  great 
actor  or  actress,  it  may  furnish  you  with  a  happy 
impulse  for  writing  a  good  screen  story.  You  need 
not  hesitate  to  adapt  your  story  to  the  character  of 
a  star  if  it  seems  to  you  fundamentally  fitted  to 
one.  But  do  not  distort  your  story  in  order  to 
market  it.  Better  leave  it  as  it  is,  and  write  another 
with  a  fresh  impulse.  One  should  not  truckle  to 
any  market  by  making  caricatures  of  his  inspira- 
tions. You  will  not  be  likely  to  do  good  work  if  you 
become  a  trimmer  and  trickster.  Remember  that, 


14  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

although  outside  circumstances  and  outside  people 
may  help  your  story,  the  true  impulse  and  motif 
of  it  must  come  from  within. 

Looking  at  the  matter  from  this  standpoint  will 
sweep  away  all  temptations  to  pad  out  your  story 
and  bring  in  irrelevant  incidents  merely  to  make 
it  longer.  I  once  heard  a  clergyman,  speaking  on 
a  platform  among  educators,  say  that  the  aim  of 
modern  education  seemed  to  be  the  same  as  that 
of  horse  breeders:  to  produce  an  animal  that  shall 
be  all  action  before  and  no  tail  behind. 

This  is  not  a  bad  suggestion  for  a  screen  story 
writer.  A  good  scenario  must  certainly  be  action 
without  any  trailing  of  its  interest.  There  are 
three  things,  setting,  character,  and  action;  but 
the  greatest  of  these  is  action. 


CHAPTER  II 
HOW  AND  WHERE  TO  GET  SCENARIO  IDEAS 

SCENARIO  plots  develop  from  feelings,  not  from 
thoughts.  The  moment  something  you  are  wit- 
nessing excites  you,  startles  you,  provokes  sym- 
pathy or  dislike,  you  have  the  germ  of  a  story. 

You  might  go  along  in  the  calm  path  of  logical 
thinking  a  long  time  before  any  stir  of  sensation 
would  come  to  you,  and  it  is  out  of  sensation  — 
that  warm,  quick  throb  of  the  nerves  which  changes 
us  from  a  state  of  indifference  into  one  of  activity 
—  that  ideas  are  born. 

But  you  may  have  fine  ideas  and  yet  not  make  a 
writer.  Many  a  good  idea,  like  many  flowers,  "are 
born  to  blush  unseen"  and  die  away  without  giving 
pleasure  or  profit  to  anybody.  The  worth  of  any- 
thing depends  upon  the  power  to  use  it.  If  a  blind 
man  were  travelling  through  a  valley  where  gold 
nuggets  lay  glittering  in  the  sunshine,  all  the  wealth 
would  be  useless  to  him  because  he  would  have 
neither  the  sense  to  see  nor  the  power  to  appropri- 
ate it.  But  to  a  keen  gold  hunter,  the  single  speck 
of  gold  dust  means  splendid  things,  and  the  sight  of 
it  starts  him  off  on  a  course  of  tireless,  fruitful  labor. 


16  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

Story  germs,  like  opportunities,  lie  around  us 
everywhere,  but  they  are  valuable  only  to  the 
agile,  adroit  mind.  Whoever  has  the  creative  in- 
stinct perceives  material  where  others  would  see 
nothing.  Visualization  is  a  miracle.  It  can  neither 
be  taught  nor  learned.  It  conies  to  the  earnest 
seeker  after  truth  and  beauty,  as  a  reward  for  his 
patience  and  his  hard  work.  Never  was  there 
truer  saying  than  that  "Inspiration  waits  upon 
daily  labor,"  and  it  is  when  we  have  delved  hard, 
and  been  almost  at  the  point  of  giving  up,  that  the 
reward  often  arrives  to  make  us  wild  with  joy. 
Then  the  plodding  mind  is  infused  with  new 
energy  and  purpose,  and  we  feel  that  we  could  go 
on  forever  without  fatigue.  But  the  recruit  in  the 
great  army  of  working  artists  must  not  wait  for 
this  pay  day  before  getting  serious  about  his  task. 
He  will  need  to  lay  in  a  considerable  fund  of  faith 
and  hope,  in  order  to  go  on  for  as  long  a  time  as 
is  necessary  before  he  sees  great  results.  The  big 
world  is  before  him  full  of  stuff  for  his  work.  The 
suggestions  for  plots  are  right  before  him  in  life  and 
also  in  literature.  From  books  read  and  half  for- 
gotten, from  old  tales  he  heard  in  childhood,  from 
dreams,  from  personal  experiences,  steal  forth 
little  fancies  that  may  be  turned  into  valuable 
plots.  Some  people  will  tell  you  that  around  news- 


HOW  TO  GET  SCENARIO  IDEAS          17 

paper  incidents  can  be  built  scenario  plots,  and 
that  is  true  under  one  condition:  that  the  incident 
you  read  about  stirs  so  much  feeling  in  you  that  it 
starts  your  fancy  to  work.  Fancy  is  a  fire  kindler; 
it  sets  the  flame  of  originality  alight.  When  you 
brace  up  and  resolve  to  do  things  all  by  yourself, 
and  better  what  you  see  has  been  done,  then  you 
begin  to  do  original  work;  and  even  if  the  first 
impulse  came  from  without,  to  yourself  belongs  the 
credit. 

But  if,  on  reading  a  newspaper  item,  or  an  article, 
you  say  "There's  a  good  idea;  I'll  try  to  make  a 
story  out  of  that,"  in  most  instances  you  will  find 
your  story  dwindle  to  nothing  under  your  efforts. 
Now,  why  is  this?  It  shows  that  the  dramatic  im- 
pulse, like  the  poetic  impulse,  comes  from  feeling. 
You  can't  write  a  good  drama  nor  a  good  scenario 
story  in  cold  blood;  or,  as  one  might  say,  from  the 
outside  point  of  view.  A  good  story  comes  from  the 
heart  of  the  writer  and  grows  as  he  feeds  it  with 
his  own  sufferings  and  joys. 

Some  wonderfully  simple  little  stories  have  been 
received  by  the  world  with  warm  and  delighted 
welcome.  Kate  Douglas  Wiggin's  "The  Birds' 
Christmas  Carol "  is  a  slight  thing,  but  it  is  founded 
upon  so  true  a  principle  that  it  came  to  the  reading 
public  like  a  new  gospel.  It  has  little  plot,  yet  a 


18  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY  ^ 

great  plot,  because  from  first  to  last  not  an  iota 
of  power  is  lost,  but  every  incident  and  every  word 
develop  the  motif  of  the  story.  Get  this  little  book 
and  study  its  construction,  and  you  will  learn  how 
simple  the  material  can  be  from  which  real  stories 
are  made.  The  most  everyday  occurrences  may 
form  the  basis  of  plots  if  they  are  dealt  with  in 
a  manner  to  relate  them  to  human  interest.  As  a 
general  rule,  the  simpler  your  plot,  the  better, 
provided  it  is  not  trivial.  Nobody  can  make  a  plot 
out  of  a  mere  string  of  happenings;  there  must  be  a 
meaning  to  them;  a  unity  which  makes  each  single 
incident  necessary  to  the  rest.  The  strength  of  a 
plot  is  seen  through  the  characters,  and  you  must 
throw  all  your  energy  and  all  your  feeling  into  the 
business  of  creating  them.  If  you  can't  take  your 
characters  to  your  heart  and  make  living  creatures 
of  them,  they  will  not  strike  the  note  of  sympathy 
when  they  come  to  stand  before  your  public.  So, 
wherever  you  may  happen  to  find  it  or  however  it 
comes  to  you,  a  true  story  germ  is  the  idea  that 
thrills  you  and  makes  you  eager  to  adopt  it.  One 
quality  of  a  true  germ  is  that  it  persists  in  intrud- 
ing itself  upon  your  attention.  You  may  drive  it 
away,  but  it  comes  back.  It  insists  upon  being 
dealt  with. 
Many  good  ideas  come  from  poems,  because  into 


HOW  TO  GET  SCENARIO  IDEAS          19 

the  best  poetry  is  compressed  the  very  life  force  of 
the  writers.  It  is  the  condensed  form  of  genius. 
The  young  writer  who  feeds  himself  upon  beautiful 
poetry  may  possibly  develop  too  much  imagination 
at  the  expense  of  his  other  qualities;  an  over-active 
imagination  is  hurtful  to  memory,  and  rather  dulls 
the  power  of  acute  reasoning.  But,  after  all,  imag- 
ination is  the  divine  faculty,  and  it  is  better  that 
the  literary  artist  or  the  dramatist  keep  plenty  of 
notebooks  in  which  to  set  down  mere  facts  and 
episodes  that  he  must  recall,  and  not  make  himself 
a  storehouse  of  details.  From  now  on,  you  should 
keep  several  notebooks.  Label  one  "Plot  germs," 
a  second,  "Happy  phrases,"  a  third,  "Scenes  and 
Characters."  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  suggested  that 
a  writer  keep  a  notebook  in  which  to  take  notes  of 
himself  when  he  happened  to  say  anything  felici- 
tous. The  good  counsellor  did  not  explain  whether 
it  was  his  custom  to  retire  to  a  closet,  away  from 
society,  for  a  few  moments,  when  he  wanted  to 
record  some  bon  mot  he  had  flashed  forth  for  the 
benefit  of  his  friends!  One  might  risk  bringing 
down  considerable  mirth  upon  his  head  if  he  jerked 
out  his  memorandum  book  at  intervals  in  conversa- 
tion. But  it  is  true  that  talk  often  develops  ideas, 
and  one  should  cultivate  the  habit  of  making  a 
private  note  or  so,  to  keep  hold  of  what  may  elude 


20  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

his  mind  later  on  when  he  gets  to  work.  Many 
a  brilliant  phrase  is  lost  because  the  person  who 
uttered  it  could  not  recall  it  in  the  exact  manner 
he  had  first  given  it.  Phrase  making  is  a  kind  of 
genius;  some  people  are  adepts  at  giving  a  happy 
turn  to  words  that  constitute  in  themselves  strik- 
ing titles.  But  they  often  go  out  of  one's  head  as 
quickly  as  they  came,  so  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
to  get  the  habit  of  making  notes  of  everything 
which  can  possibly  be  turned  to  good  account.  One 
cannot  always  coin  a  good  title  at  will.  The  note- 
book is  an  immense  help  here. 

The  use  of  the  second  notebook  is  evident,  and 
need  not  be  dwelt  upon.  Certainly  no  writer  should 
neglect  to  keep  a  record  of  every  interesting  person 
he  meets;  putting  down  in  a  few  words  his  most 
remarkable  characteristics  as  well  as  his  appear- 
ance. And  the  circumstances  under  which  he  was 
met  ought  to  be  noted,  too.  It  is  amazing  how 
much  we  forget  in  the  journey  through  life,  but  a 
scene  or  a  character  that  has  passed  into  the  limbo 
of  forgetfulness  may  be  recalled  by  a  single  de- 
scriptive sentence.  The  "Plot  germ"  notebook  is 
the  most  valuable  of  the  three,  in  my  opinion. 
People  who  have  never  tried  writing  often  think 
that  to  concoct  a  good  plot  is  a  very  easy  thing;  but 
a  little  experience  ought  to  break  up  such  an  illu- 


HOW  TO  GET  SCENARIO  IDEAS         21 

sion.  One  of  the  brightest  lights  in  the  moving 
picture  world  said  not  long  ago,  in  a  speech  to  a 
club,  that  people  generally  had  about  eight  really 
fine  ideas  for  stories  in  the  whole  course  of  their 
lives,  and  that  if  they  were  wise  they  would  make 
the  best  of  these!  When  you  set  seriously  to  work, 
you  will  possibly  find  that  out  of  fifty  apparently 
happy  ideas,  one  or  two  will  be  of  service.  So  it 
seems  good  policy  not  to  let  one  decent  suggestion 
escape  your  useful  notebook.  A  moment  of  writing 
may  save  you  a  great  deal  of  hard  thinking  later  on. 
One  thing  that  is  essential  to  a  writer  of  screen 
stories  is  to  keep  up  to  date.  There  are  fashions  in 
drama;  there  are  waves  of  preference,  and  these 
have  to  be  taken  account  of  and  borne  in  mind  by 
the  producer  of  scenarios.  In  any  profession  it  is 
necessary  to  keep  up  with  what  is  being  done  along 
those  lines;  but  I  think  that  nobody  has  to  be  quite 
so  alert  and  quick  to  seize  the  idea  of  the  moment 
as  the  scenario  writer.  You  will  have  to  give  sev- 
eral hours  each  week  to  reading  the  current  mov- 
ing picture  magazines;  observing  what  kind  of 
plays  are  popular  and  to  finding  out  by  the  use  of 
all  your  wits  what  is  the  idol  of  the  hour  in  the  way 
of  motif.  Sometimes  everybody  is  keen  after  the 
heroic;  again  mere  drollery  carries  the  audience 
away.  Melodrama  has  its  day  and  then  the  public 


22  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

wants  the  variety  of  historical  drama.  Producers 
are  alive  to  these  whims,  and  their  aim  is  to  give 
the  public  exactly  what  it  wants.  You  have  only 
to  be  alive,  also,  and  watch  the  signs  of  the  times, 
and  you  will  be  able  to  profit  by  your  vigilance. 

Then,  by  keeping  in  touch  with  the  work  of 
others  you  will  avoid  the  trouble  of  repeating  what 
has  already  been  done.  You  will  not  waste  time 
writing  exploded  ideas.  And  it  often  happens  that 
while  you  are  watching  a  play  written  by  another, 
the  vital  spark  is  kindled  in  your  own  mind.  This 
is  especially  true  in  moving  pictures.  When  you 
see  a  picture  put  on,  you  are  likely  to  be  at  first  in 
a  critical  mood,  and  this  mood  yields  to  enthusi- 
asm only  when  something  comes  on  that  excites 
emotion  in  you.  Now  feeling  and  the  critical 
faculty  begin  to  work  together,  and  you  ask  of 
yourself  —  "Is  that  right?  If  I  had  been  doing  it 
would  I  have  done  it  in  this  way?" 

Then,  if  you  can  imagine  a  different  way  of 
doing  it,  you  are  on  the  track  of  another  story. 
Emotion  —  impulse  —  energy  —  they  succeed  one 
another.  Whatever  arouses  you  begins  in  you  the 
course  of  effort  which  may  end  in  a  great  success. 
So  attend  to  your  sensations  and  make  capital  out 
of  them. 

Now,  I  want  to  draw  your  attention  to  a  great 


HOW  TO  GET  SCENARIO  IDEAS         23 

truth.  Originality  is  a  variation  from  the  ordinary 
way  of  doing  things,  but  originality  is  not  eccen- 
tricity; not  a  wilful  departure  from  custom  in  order 
to  be  singular.  True  originality  has  a  motive  — 
a  logical  motive  for  its  basis.  Almost  any  one 
can  think  of  a  thousand  whimsicalities  which  will 
change  a  story  or  a  drama.  It  does  not  require 
much  talent  to  turn  a  beautiful  thing  into  a  ridic- 
ulous one,  and  caricaturing  is  an  easy  pastime  for 
poor  wits.  But  exercises  of  this  sort  are  unprofita- 
ble and  lead  nowhere.  If  you  are  to  gain  anything 
of  real  value  by  the  study  of  good  plays  and  screen 
stories,  you  must  apply  yourself  to  earnestly 
studying  their  structure.  Take  heed  of  the  first 
striking  incident  that  comes;  keep  it  well  in  mind 
throughout  the  after  scenes,  and  make  an  effort  to 
recollect  the  introductions  of  the  characters  as  they 
appear.  Follow  the  story  carefully  through,  criti- 
cise each  succeeding  incident,  and  bring  your  best 
judgment  to  bear  upon  the  most  important  point: 
whether  the  climax  of  the  pictured  story  proves 
the  point  suggested  by  the  first  leading  incident! 
This  is  the  test  of  the  plot;  whether  the  author  has 
proved  his  point. 

The  thinking  process  once  having  been  begun 
in  you,  fresh  ideas  that  have  been  inspired  by  what 
you  have  seen  will  grow  into  something  of  real 


24  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

profit.  Originality  does  not  mean  that  you  are  to 
try  to  do  something  that  no  one  has  ever  done  be- 
fore. Even  Shakespeare  did  not  attempt  it.  As  is 
well  known,  he  borrowed  many  of  his  plots  from 
old  Italian  writers,  but  he  infused  into  their  old 
themes  so  much  fire  and  freshness  that  they 
emerged  -  from  the  crucible  of  his  mind  things  of 
living  wonder  and  beauty. 

What  matter  that  the  story  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
of  Othello,  of  Timon  of  Athens  had  been  told  and 
retold  ages  before  Shakespeare  came  to  earth! 
When  he  told  them  all  again  in  his  own  way,  from 
the  standpoint  of  his  profound  philosophy  and 
marvellous  knowledge  of  human  nature,  the  world 
listened  eagerly  and  will  continue  to  listen  for 
ages  to  come.  Certain  old  plays  of  Corneille  and 
Moliere  have  given  the  impulse  to  many  modern 
writers  of  drama.  A  generation  ago  the  society 
plays  of  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan  were  in  great 
vogue,  and  theatre-goers  found  in  those  pictures  of 
fashionable  life  the  same  amusing  foibles  and  follies 
that  characterize  modern  society  comedy.  Drama 
is  simply  the  eternal  spirit  of  life  voicing  natural 
emotions.  As  writers  study  the  best  authors,  as 
painters  sit  at  the  feet  of  their  masters,  so  should 
scenario  writers  who  aim  to  do  good  work  regard 
drama  as  one  of  the  chief  sources  of  their  inspiration. 


HOW  TO  GET  SCENARIO  IDEAS          25 

Neglect  no  opportunity  to  see  a  good  play 
whether  it  is  on  the  speaking  stage  or  in  a  screen 
theatre.  The  way  the  play  is  represented  will 
differ  through  these  two  mediums,  but  the  motif 
will  be  unchanged,  and  it  is  the  motif  and  the  way 
it  is  wrought  out  which  are  to  furnish  you  with 
your  inspiration.  The  art  we  love  always  supplies 
us  with  the  divine  fire  for  our  creative  energies. 
After  hearing  a  fine  concert  a  young  musician 
often  goes  out  filled  with  fresh  and  eager  ideas. 
He  has  heard  tones  of  beauty,  and  they  have 
thrilled  him  and  started  something  to  work  in  Kim 
that  will  not  be  satisfied  until  he  has  tried  his 
best  —  he  also  —  to  give  forth  tones  of  beauty. 
Any  one  who  has  the  dramatic  instinct  in  him  can 
scarcely  fail  to  find  even  in  a  poor  drama  some 
suggestion  that  will  start  his  own  mind  to  work. 
Sometimes  skilful  authors  take  a  course  of  reading 
of  sensational  novels  written  by  amateurs,  simply 
to  get  out  of  the  rut  of  their  own  thinking  and  get 
stirred  up  through  the  mental  prick  of  horrific  tales. 
The  screen  story  writer,  more  than  other  workers, 
needs  to  keep  himself  constantly  in  touch  with 
other  minds  that  are  working  along  the  same  lines. 

The  first  sight  of  a  new  play  has  the  same  effect 
upon  the  mind  that  the  kindling  of  a  match  has 
upon  a  train  of  gunpowder.  It  is  a  little  like  the 


26  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

thrill  or  shock  which  sets  the  mind  to  working, 
but  it  will  die  out,  and  if  you  ever  think  of  it  again 
it  will  seem  trite  and  old.  The  good  artist  knows 
that  first  impressions  are  precious  and  the  sugges- 
tions coming  from  them  are  material  to  be  cherished 
and  carefully  used. 

Supposing  you  have  got  hold  of  your  first  sug- 
gestion for  a  play.  The  first  question  you  ask 
yourself  is  —  "How  will  this  naturally  work  it- 
self out?"  Now,  the  way  of  its  working  out  will 
depend  largely  upon  what  kind  of  an  idea  it  is. 
We  will  suppose  that  it  is  an  incident  in  which  two 
persons  are  concerned.  One  has  acted  and  the 
other  has  reacted  in  a  situation.  Here  you  have 
an  important  suggestion.  In  every  good  dramatic 
story  there  are  action  and  reaction.  In  other  words, 
one  force  pushes  and  another  force  hinders.  If  you 
think  only  of  one  side,  the  acting  side,  and  go  on  to 
make  your  story,  you  will  not  have  a  dramatic 
story,  but  a  narrative. 

Let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  the  most  wonderful 
story  ever  related,  that  of  Adam  and  Eve  in  Para- 
dise. Here  was  a  clear,  peaceful  situation  with  two 
acting  figures  enjoying  life.  If  a  story  had  been 
written  describing  the  placid  course  of  their  exist- 
ence, how  Eve  had  borne  children,  loved  them  and 
reared  them,  and  how  Adam  had  been  happy  in  this 


HOW  TO  GET  SCENARIO  IDEAS         27 

home  life,  there  would  have  been  a  pretty  story, 
but  not  a  drama.  The  dramatic  element  was 
brought  in  by  the  opposing  force  of  the  satanic 
influence;  the  reaction  upon  the  peaceful  scene  by 
the  serpent  enemy.  The  sudden  intrusion  of  the 
enemy  brings  in  the  element  of  disturbance,  of 
combat,  of  drama.  This  primitive  drama  has  given 
the  impulse  to  most  dramatic  stories  and  poems 
that  have  been  written  down  to  the  present  day. 
"Paradise  Lost,"  "Faust,"  "Mort  d'Arthur"— in 
fact  every  story  of  worth  has  been  founded  upon 
the  principle  of  two  opposing  forces;  good  and  evil, 
darkness  and  light.  These  two  forces  live  in  the 
unseen  world  about  you.  Your  skill,  even  genius, 
shows  itself  by  the  way  you  seize  this  principle  and 
work  it  out  in  your  story.  We  will  suppose  that  you 
are  concocting  a  dramatic  tale.  You  lay  out  your 
peaceful  atmosphere,  people  it  with  one  or  more 
mortals  who  are  enjoying  life.  Now  suddenly 
comes  in  the  shattering  influence  which  destroys 
their  peace,  brings  about  a  struggle  to  be  ended 
only  with  the  end  of  your  tale.  You  must  realize 
that  from  the  first  moment  you  plan  your  drama 
this  struggle  is  to  be  held  in  your  mind.  Do  not 
let  yourself  become  so  interested  in  the  pleasing 
part  of  your  story,  the  good  and  agreeable  chai> 
acters  that  you  draw,  as  to  forget  for  a  moment 


28  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

that  hovering,  destructive  influence  which  must 
constantly  be  brought  into  play. 

The  destructive  influence  or  the  danger  element 
gives  what  is  called  "the  suspense"  of  the  drama 
story.  No  part  of  your  work  exacts  so  much  hard 
thinking  as  the  management  of  your  suspense 
quantity.  You  will  find  it  a  good  exercise  as  a 
beginning  of  dramatic  story  writing  to  write  up 
from  memory  incidents  as  you  recall  them  from 
your  own  experience  or  from  what  you  have  heard 
of  evil  forces  coming  in  to  destroy  happy  lives.  In 
everybody's  experience  there  have  been  countless 
such  happenings.  You  must  learn  to  look  upon 
your  life  as  a  fund  in  the  bank  upon  which  you  may 
draw  whenever  you  need  material.  The  reason 
why  your  own  life  and  that  of  your  friends  fur- 
nishes you  with  better  material  than  that  you  may 
glean  from  reading  books  is  that  what  you  get  in 
the  first  way  comes  to  you  colored  by  feeling;  just 
as  words  have  tone  colors  so  memories  have  col- 
ors; joy,  grief,  hope,  hate,  love.  There  has  been 
much  talk  of  inspiration  and  of  thrills.  A  good  deal 
of  nonsense  has  been  talked,  but  there  is  no  doubt 
that  the  best  ideas  come  to  the  brain  through  the 
heart.  So  learn  to  feel  deeply,  to  sympathize  with 
life  as  it  is  lived  around  you.  This  is  the  first  step 
in  the  way  of  getting  the  true  dramatic  germ. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  THOUGHT  BACK  OP  YOUR  STORY 

WE  now  approach  the  most  difficult,  but  also  the 
most  vital  part  of  our  subject;  that  of  the  story 
motif  or  underlying  idea.  So  far  we  have  been 
dealing  with  things  in  plain  sight;  we  have  been 
looking  at  stories  acting  themselves  out  in  certain 
ways;  but  now  the  questions  come  —  Why  these 
special  ways?  What  makes  a  story  tell  itself  in  one 
fashion  rather  than  another?  And  the  answering 
of  these  questions  involves  the  matter  of  your  own 
personality. 

You  have  set  machinery  to  work  to  bring  about 
a  certain  result,  but  there  was  a  power  back  of  that 
machinery  which  started  it  to  working.  The  power 
was  the  impulse  which  moved  you,  yourself;  the 
desire  that  awoke  in  your  mind  to  begin  a  particular 
story  and  no  other.  In  every  good  story,  in  every 
good  drama  there  is  this  power;  this  upleaping  of 
desire;  and  it  is  the  important  thing.  One  of  the 
best  writers  upon  the  literary  art  said,  "It  is  not 
the  material,  but  the  instinct  to  use  it  in  the  right 
way,  that  makes  the  Born  Talent."  But  Bulwer 
Lytton  asserted  long  ago  that  what  most  men  lack 


30  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

is  not  so  much  talent  as  the  impulse  to  labor.  The 
inference  is  that  it  is  a  stimulus  to  do  a  thing  — 
a  devouring,  compelling  impulse  founded  upon  a 
desire  —  which  matters  to  any  writer,  more  even 
than  the  possession  of  the  stuff  with  which  to  make 
a  story.  Why,  a  really  good  plot  may  lie  gathering 
the  dust  of  indolence  in  somebody's  brain  for  long 
years,  and  then,  suddenly,  the  desire  wakes  in  him 
to  do  something  with  his  material,  and  he  immedi- 
ately sets  to  work,  all  energy  and  zeal,  and  turns 
out  a  story!  The  story  was  nothing  at  all  until,  by 
some  intricate  process  of  mental  labor,  he  got  all 
at  once  the  motif  that  changed  a  dead  thing  into  a 
live  one. 

What  is  true  of  literary  stories  applies  in  this 
respect  to  screen  stories.  Perhaps  it  is  of  even  more 
importance  here.  Sometimes  a  literary  story  may 
pass  that  is  merely  pleasing  in  style  and  tolerable  as 
to  idea.  One  reader  peruses  it  at  a  time,  and  unless 
it  strikes  him  particularly  he  rarely  talks  about  it, 
and  so  seldom  learns  what  other  people  think  of  it. 
Consequently,  if  it  has  served  to  pass  a  tedious  hour 
for  him  he  is  indulgent  toward  it.  But  a  screen 
story  is  different.  Many  people  witness  it  to- 
gether; if  it  is  really  fine  there  is  an  atmosphere  of 
general  approval  that  at  once  makes  itself  felt,  in 
that  peculiar  little  stir  of  satisfaction  which  goes 


THOUGHT  BACK  OF  YOUR  STORY       31 

around  an  audience.  On  going  outside  you  hear 
the  expression  of  other  people  about  it,  and  a  much 
more  definite  impression  is  made  upon  your  mind 
than  is  made  by  merely  running  through  a  maga- 
zine story.  If  you  like  it,  you  are  apt  to  say,  "That 
is  a  gripping  story."  It  has  taken  hold  of  you. 

Here  is  the  gist  of  the  thing.  It  takes  hold  of  you 
because  it  contains  a  vital  thought;  there  is  living 
force  back  of  it,  coming  from  the  earnest  impulse 
of  the  author.  Before  he  wrote  it  he  was  himself 
gripped  by  an  idea  that  insisted  on  being  expressed, 
and  he  passed  it  on;  he  became  the  medium  of  a 
thought  that  is  in  some  way  related  to  the  common 
brotherhood  of  man,  and  they  recognize  it.  As 
the  usual  phrase  runs,  "It  has  appeal." 

Every  great  story  or  play  has  an  appeal.  If  it  is 
a  wide  appeal,  so  much  the  better.  If  it  deals  with 
a  question  that  concerns  humanity  in  general,  it 
may  become  one  of  those  things  which  at  intervals 
sweep  through  the  world  and  carry  people  away  in 
a  whirl  of  enthusiasm.  "Intolerance"  was  such  a 
story.  The  idea  was  so  big  here  that  only  a  master 
mind  could  have  completely  carried  it  out,  and 
excellent  work  as  the  author  did  in  it,  no  doubt  a 
Shakespeare  could  have  done  better.  But  for  quite 
a  long  time  "Intolerance"  was  the  play  of  the 
period,  and  no  one  dared  be  so  out  of  date  as  not  to 


32  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

go  to  see  it.  Great  pains  were  taken  with  its  produc- 
tion and  no  expense  was  spared  in  scenic  effect. 
Three  years  ago  the  first  thing  that  greeted  a  new 
arrival  in  Hollywood,  California,  was  the  great 
field  where  "Intolerance"  had  been  shot,  and  the 
gigantic  wooden  elephants  towering  over  the  walls 
of  the  ancient  temples  were  a  fearsome  sight.  Now, 
merely  a  few  rags  flutter  about  in  the  breeze  where 
formerly  were  tents  and  walls,  and  the  sight-seer 
smiles  and  turns  away  his  eyes  from  the  aftermath 
of  the  great  picture  play.  But  the  idea  beneath 
that  play  is  eternal,  and  so  long  as  men  worship 
freedom  and  loathe  tyranny,  even  the  recollection 
of  it  will  stir  their  hearts.  This  is  an  instance 
of  a  world-wide  appeal.  Themes  of  patriotism, 
of  humanity,  of  revolt  against  false  religions  or 
against  cruelty  in  any  form,  are  generally  appeal- 
ing themes. 

Not  everybody  can  handle  a  problem  theme. 
And  if  he  bungles  it,  if  he  lets  it  get  away  from  him, 
he  makes  a  wretched  muddle,  indeed.  An  idea  that 
is  too  big  for  one's  powers  —  too  exacting  for  his 
limited  experience  —  is  about  as  difficult  as  it  is 
for  a  small  child  to  lead  a  powerful  mastiff  on  a 
weak  string.  Better  do  what  you  can  do  well  at 
first,  and  give  your  talent  time  to  grow  toward  the 
greater  effort.  Many  writers  get  discouraged  be- 


THOUGHT  BACK  OF  YOUR  STORY       33 

cause  they  are  over-ambitious  in  choosing  their 
themes. 

However,  there  are  thousands  of  problems  that 
are  not  unmanageable;  that  touch  upon  facts  of 
common  interest.  Problems  teem  all  about  us; 
life  is  full  of  them.  To  ignore  their  call  would  be 
stupid.  Therefore,  you  want  to  educate  yourself  to 
deal  with  them.  Begin  modestly,  but  you  need  not 
have  a  modest  ideal;  all  the  time  you  are  doing 
what  you  can  do  now,  you  can  keep  your  greater 
ideal  before  you  to  work  toward.  Before  you  un- 
dertake to  grapple  with  questions  of  national  im- 
portance, experiment  with  things  that  concern  the 
more  simple  relations  of  human  and  family  life. 
Go  to  the  old  stories,  the  legends  and  fairy  tales, 
for  suggestions.  And  also  go  to  the  Bible. 

It  used  to  be  said  that  the  Bible  was  the  great 
armory  where  people  who  wanted  to  fight  found 
their  weapons.  The  Book  of  Proverbs  has  truly 
furnished  countless  weapons  for  combat  between 
people  who  cannot  see  a  thing  from  the  same  point 
of  view.  But  so  have  the  classics;  so,  too,  have  all 
manners  and  sorts  of  philosophy.  In  fact,  wherever 
there  is  subject  matter  for  clashes  of  opinion,  there 
is  subject  matter  for  a  story  motif. 

Take  the  proverb,  "A  virtuous  wife  is  far  above 
rubies."  How  many  stories  have  been  woven  about 


34  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

it!  Womanly  virtue  and  innocence  have  furnished 
the  themes  for  many  beautiful  legends  and  poems. 
Every  one  instantly  recalls  "Una  and  the  Lion,"  in 
this  connection.  And  when  the  virtue  of  patience 
is  thought  of,  who  does  not  immediately  think  of 
the  patient  Griselda?  She  is  not  a  popular  heroine 
in  the  twentieth  century;  but  she  had  her  day,  and 
countless  plots  have  been  woven  around  the  uni- 
versally accepted  idea  that  womanly  virtue  is  the 
foundation  of  home  and  a  nation's  security. 

The  author  with  convictions  cannot  always  hope 
to  escape  criticism  from  some  people;  he  need  not 
expect  to  please  everybody.  He  will  do  well  to  be 
honest  with  himself  and  with  his  subject,  for  if  he 
trims  to  suit  other  people  he  will  be  seen  through, 
and  it  is  queer  but  true  that  few  things  make  the 
public  more  irritated  than  to  realize  that  it  has 
been  pampered  and  treated  like  a  baby,  by  being 
given  sugar  plums  instead  of  solid  food.  George 
Sand  said,  in  her  novel  "  Consuelo,"  that  the  public 
is  a  good  judge  of  values,  and  once  having  seen 
anything  really  superior  it  insists  upon  having 
things  as  good  afterwards,  and  will  not  be  satisfied 
with  inferior  things.  So  we  have  this  as  an  incen- 
tive to  do  our  best  at  all  times. 

Another  reason  for  writing  up  and  not  down  is 
that  he  who  runs  after  popularity  is  likely  to  ride 


THOUGHT  BACK  OF  YOUR  STORY       35 

to  a  fall  because  popularity  is  a  very  variable 
quantity.  It  is  strange  but  certain  that  no  one  can 
put  his  finger  on  the  pulse  of  the  public  for  any 
length  of  time.  What  is  disliked  today  may  be  in 
full  favor  tomorrow.  There  is  but  one  thing  which 
is  eternally  appealing,  and  that  is  —  absolute, 
unadulterated  goodness.  Avoid  the  goody-goody, 
but  do  try  to  cultivate  in  yourself  the  honest,  the 
human  point  of  view.  If  you  descend  low  enough  to 
cater  to  the  rougher  impulses  of  human  nature  you 
will  soon  have  the  mortification  of  dropping  out. 
Decency,  uprightness,  are  permanent  things;  evils 
of  all  sorts  and  degrees  are  temporary.  It  is  even 
politic  to  aim  high.  The  public  appreciates  the 
compliment  of  being  taken  seriously,  and  being 
treated  as  if  it  held  opinions  that  are  correct  and 
standards  that  are  lofty. 

Story  motifs  that  relate  to  human  relations  lie 
all  around  us.  From  the  most  ancient  times  they 
have  been  freely  used  by  dramatists.  Upon  the 
idea  of  ingratitude  old  Solomon  gave  one  of 
his  most  convincing  discourses;  Shakespeare  pro- 
duced the  great  play  of  "King  Lear";  Balzac  made 
a  wonderful  dramatic  novel,  with  "Pere  Goriot " 
as  the  martyred  parent.  With  jealousy  for  the 
theme  "Othello"  was  given  to  the  world.  "A  Mid- 
summer-Night's Dream  "  exquisitely  portrays  worn- 


36  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

an's  capacity  to  idealize  the  one  she  loves.  Could 
there  be  a  more  potent  description  of  sentimen- 
tality than  the  lines,  — 

"  Come,  sit  thee  down  upon  this  flowery  bed, 
While  I  thy  amiable  cheeks  do  coy, 
And  stick  musk  roses  in  thy  sleek,  smooth  head, 
And  kiss  thy  fair  large  ears,  my  gentle  joy." 

It  was  a  daring,  an  extraordinary  conception,  this 
of  Titania  in  love  with  the  ass,  but  it  proved  the 
genius  of  its  originator.  For  four  centuries  it  has 
been  the  very  model  classic  for  the  fanaticism  of 
love. 

Fairy  stories  seem  but  slight  things  to  the  super- 
ficial mind.  But  to  the  student  they  show  pro- 
found insight  into  human  nature.  All  folklore 
repeats  national  experiences  and  beliefs.  Read 
Grimms'  "Household  Tales,"  and  Hans  Andersen, 
as  well  as  the  classical  legends,  if  you  would  dis- 
cover good  material  for  story  motifs.  But  do  not 
imagine  that  by  merely  taking  a  good  idea  and 
creating  characters  to  act  and  react  upon  one 
another  that  you  are  producing  a  drama. 

A  story  is  a  thing  in  three  parts;  a  beginning, 
a  middle,  and  an  ending.  Life  furnishes  us  with 
the  beginning  and  the  middle,  but  life  does  not  end. 
It  goes  on  from  one  generation  to  another,  weaving 
itself  in  and  out,  mingling  stories  and  in  a  way 


THOUGHT  BACK  OF  YOUR  STORY       37 

bringing  about  confusion  between  them.  Art  sup- 
plies the  end  of  the  story.  A  writer  takes  the  ma- 
terial life  furnishes  and  makes  a  story  by  setting 
his  imagination  at  work  to  supply  a  logical,  satis- 
factory ending.  It  is  plain,  then,  that  the  chief 
thing  in  an  imaginary  story  is  its  ending.  Your 
inspiration  or  big  thought  may  suggest  a  certain 
story  to  you,  but  unless  you  see  your  way  clear  to 
the  finish  —  unless  the  finish  seems  the  important 
thing  —  the  story  is  incomplete  and  worthless. 
The  trouble  with  most  stories  is  that  they  are 
trivial.  They  lack  substance;  they  are  merely 
masses  of  incident  thrown  together.  A  dramatic 
story  which  is  trivial  becomes  farce  in  the  acting. 
The  one  thing  that  lifts  a  story  above  the  common- 
place is  the  thought  or  motif  back  of  it;  the  in- 
spiration the  author  had  in  writing  it  out.  A  good 
actor  searches  his  copy  to  find  out  the  motif  of 
the  author  so  that  he  may  interpret  it  to  the  au- 
dience. It  ought  to  be  so  plain  that  it  will  thrill 
and  stir  him,  so  that  he  may  in  turn  thrill  the 
audience. 

We  cannot  make  anything  plain  to  others  until 
it  is  plain  to  ourselves.  So  first  of  all  get  a  good 
grasp  upon  your  motif  or  else  your  characters  will 
do  things  contrary  to  your  intention.  As  you  write 
stop  often  and  ask  yourself,  "Is  this  consistent 


38  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

with  the  end  I  had  in  view?  Does  this  help  to 
prove  my  point?"  If  not,  cut  it  out. 

It  is  well  that  a  motif  should  strike  the  note  of  the 
age  you  are  living  in.  People  like  to  hear  talk  of  the 
subject  that  interests  the  world  at  the  moment. 
When  some  great  reform  is  being  agitated  a  wave 
of  interest  quivers  through  the  atmosphere  and 
any  story  or  drama  that  touches  upon  that  topic  is 
eagerly  listened  to.  Jean  Webster's  "Daddy  Long 
Legs,"  sweet  and  dainty  as  it  was,  might  not  have 
been  such  a  tremendous  success  had  it  not  come 
out  at  the  moment  when  the  reform  of  orphan 
asylums  was  being  agitated.  Injustice  to  children 
and  to  wrongdoers  has  always  been  a  vital  topic, 
but  occasionally  it  flames  out  before  the  public 
mind  when  some  eloquent  speaker  voices  a  new 
personal  experience;  as  did  Thomas  Mott  Osborne 
a  few  years  ago. 

But  there  is  even  a  greater  gift  than  to  catch  the 
bird  of  public  opinion  on  the  wing  as  it  flies  past  — 
and  that  is  seeing  it  from  afar,  before  it  fairly  ap- 
pears within  the  range  of  general  vision.  "The 
spirit  of  expectancy,"  says  Wyche,  "is  the  creative 
spirit."  We  must  all  be  seers.  It  is  through  the 
creative  imagination  that  we  perceive  the  ideal 
and  come  into  consciousness  of  our  kinship  to  the 
divine. 


THOUGHT  BACK  OF  YOUR  STORY       39 

There  is  always  what  is  called  a  psychological 
moment  for  a  story  motif  to  be  launched :  and  the 
happy  moment  is  when  the  topic  it  deals  with  is 
"simmering"  in  the  minds  of  intelligent  people. 
Happy  the  writer  who  has  the  prophetic  grasp  upon 
a  world  problem!  If  you  can  get  a  hold  upon  any- 
thing, great  or  little,  that  is  still  in  the  depths  and 
bring  it  to  the  surface,  you  are  indeed  in  luck. 
Dickens  was  just  enough  and  not  too  much  in 
advance  of  his  age  when  he  was  inspired  to  give 
the  world  "Oliver  Twist."  Much  of  the  character 
drawing  in  this  book  is  wretched.  Its  love  scenes 
are  full  of  mawkish  sentimentality,  and  where  it 
deals  with  domestic  circumstances  it  is  absolutely 
untrue  to  life.  But  the  vivid  pictures  of  Sikes  and 
Fagin  the  Jew  were  the  work  of  a  divine  genius. 
Dickens  was  one  of  the  few  world  reformers  who 
possessed  the  dramatic  instinct  to  such  an  extent 
that  he  was  able  to  make  his  characters  live  out  his 
ideal. 

There  is  absolute  necessity  for  a  purpose  in  a 
screen  story  which  aims  to  live  more  than  a  day. 
Your  purpose  need  not  be  moral,  but  neither 
should  it  be  unmoral;  that  is,  you  need  not  aim  to 
press  home  any  particular  point,  but  you  should 
touch  upon  some  idea  or  feeling  that  concerns  all 
human  nature. 


40  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

Now,  your  purpose  or  motif  is  the  thing  you  have 
set  your  heart  upon  saying.  You  cannot  afford  to 
let  go  of  it  or  it  will  elude  you.  It  is  well,  before  you 
begin  to  write  out  your  story,  to  write  out  your 
purpose  or  motif  in  ten  or  a  dozen  words  and  keep  it 
in  plain  sight  all  the  time  you  are  doing  your  work. 

Frederic  Taber  Cooper  remarked:  "One  thing  is 
certain:  the  central  idea  will  not  come  at  command. 
It  must  be  patiently  looked  for,  watched  for, 
struggled  for;  it  usually  represents  a  good  deal  of 
hard  work  and  a  good  deal  of  discouragement." 

Some  writers  often  get  their  inspiration  for  a 
motif  from  titles  of  other  stories  and  books.  A 
title  may  suggest  one  side  of  a  subject  to  one 
author  and  leave  untouched  other  sides  that  may 
be  plain  as  day  to  a  mind  differently  constituted. 
The  disposition  of  your  mind,  your  temperament, 
will  have  much  to  do  with  your  choice  of  subject. 
Poe,  the  melancholy  and  introspective,  invariably 
had  a  psychological  motif  for  his  tales.  It  may  be 
remarked,  in  passing,  that  Poe  was  a  very  obscure 
man  of  letters,  neglected  by  the  world  until  he 
produced  his  poem  "The  Raven." 

Unless  you  are  driven  by  your  genius  do  not 
select  a  psychological  motif  for  your  first  stories. 
Search  rather  for  cheerful,  pleasing  subjects.  Put 
yourself  in  the  way  of  cheerful  experiences.  Some 


THOUGHT  BACK  OF  YOUR  STORY       41 

young  writers  think  they  must  cultivate  gloom,  but 
I  should  rather  advise  you  to  cultivate  joy.  In  this 
day  and  generation  especially,  joy  is  the  torch 
bearer  for  the  world. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  PLOT 

THE  photoplay  plot  is  founded  upon  the  idea  of 
struggle.  Please  reflect  upon  this.  You  are  not  to 
write  a  fictitious  history  of  individuals,  giving  the 
details  of  their  career,  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
as  the  older  novelists  were  wont  to  do;  nor  even  to 
achieve  a  short  narrative  containing  some  exciting 
incidents,  involving  a  hero  and  a  heroine.  You 
might  put  both  of  them  through  the  most  astonish- 
ing stunts,  and  not  have  anything  like  a  plot.  But 
when  you  imagine  for  your  pair  of  lovers  either 
circumstances  or  a  human  enemy  opposing  their 
happiness,  and  go  on  to  show  how  they  managed 
to  marry  and  be  happy  despite  everything;  or  else 
how  things  were  too  much  for  them,  and  they  were 
defeated  in  the  end  —  then,  you  weave  a  plot,  and 
are  on  the  way  to  make  a  photoplay  story.  There 
must  be  struggle  and  a  triumph  of  some  kind. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  screen  story  there  was 
very  crude  work  in  picturizing,  and  the  story  was 
founded  upon  the  idea  of  physical  struggle;  fights, 
murders,  rough-and-tumble,  prowling  beasts,  for- 
est fires  —  everything  elemental  and  fierce  that 


THE  PLOT  43 

could  be  depicted.  But  the  mechanics  of  the  mo- 
tion picture  industry  have  wonderfully  improved, 
and  it  is  realized  more  and  more  that  the  screen  can 
lend  itself  to  fine  and  dainty  work.  The  day  will 
come  when  nothing  will  be  too  delicate  or  subtle 
to  be  shown  in  pictures;  neither  the  deepest  emo- 
tions nor  the  most  complicated  actions;  immense 
progress  has  been  made  in  the  past  two  years,  and 
big  strides  are  being  taken  now  every  day.  At 
present  stories  are  shown  that  deal  largely  with 
that  moral  struggle  which  is  inevitable  to  life;  the 
strife  of  brute  forces  is  tacitly  falling  to  the  field 
of  low  comedy,  and  used  in  helping  out  strong 
melodrama.  The  better  plays  are  based  upon  the 
suggestion  of  moral  struggle,  and  they  are  becoming 
as  popular  as  the  rougher  plays  used  to  be. 

All  human  lives  are  made  up  of  struggle  against 
circumstances.  Few  people  have  actual  enemies 
who  try  to  wrest  from  them  the  fruit  of  their  labors 
or  rob  them  of  what  they  love  best.  But  every- 
body has  to  fight  something;  even  if  it  be  only  what 
is  called  fate.  The  greatest  French  dramatists  have 
dealt  much  with  this  idea  of  fate;  with  the  Ger- 
mans it  was  a  tempting  theme,  and  they  wrought  it 
out  in  its  more  morbid  aspects.  Shakespeare,  who 
was  influenced  by  the  Italians,  used  it  in  the  play  of 
"Hamlet";  and  in  our  own  times  Stevenson  and 


44  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

Poe  have  exploited  it,  the  first  in  the  famous  "Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,"  which  not  long  ago  was 
sweeping  the  country  as  a  screen  play.  It  is  a 
blood-curdling  play,  showing  in  the  most  powerful 
manner  the  strife  between  the  good  and  evil  sides 
of  man's  nature. 

Another  type  of  struggle  is  that  of  man  against 
the  forces  of  nature;  pioneers  battling  their  way 
through  forests,  miners  obstinately  delving  in  the 
stubborn  earth,  and  discoverers  of  every  kind. 
In  every  book,  in  every  drama,  is  a  hint  of  life's 
great  conflict,  and  it  must  be  the  aim  of  every 
scenario  writer  to  bring  out  clearly  this  fundamen- 
tal idea  of  a  life's  story.  A  mere  recital  of  events  — 
a  chain  of  incidents  —  does  not  constitute  a  plot; 
the  struggle  must  be  present,  and  when  the  strug- 
gle is  ended  the  story  is  done. 

The  first  essence  of  a  scenario  plot  is  that  it  must 
be  simple.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  said  that  the 
great  excellence  of  all  the  best  work  lies  in  its  sim- 
plicity. The  author  who  wishes  to  give  earnest 
attention  to  this  matter  should  read  Poe's  essay  on 
the  "Philosophy  of  Composition."  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  literature  on  the  art  of  short  story  writing; 
almost  nothing  on  the  art  of  scenario;  but  the 
same  general  rule  of  plot  construction  applies 
equally  to  the  short  story  and  the  scenario; 


THE  PLOT  45 

namely,  that  it  should  begin  with  a  striking  inci- 
dent, called  a  crisis,  and  lead  on  through  a  series  of 
consecutive  incidents  to  a  dramatic  conclusion,  or 
climax.  Distinguish  between  the  crisis,  which  is  the 
exciting  of  the  interest  of  your  audience,  and  the 
climax,  which  is  the  satisfying  of  their  aroused 
curiosity.  What  is  known  as  the  denouement  is 
simply  the  final  situation,  shown  in  the  literary 
story  by  a  few  words,  a  slight  explanation,  and  in 
the  screen  story  by  the  flashing  on  of  a  picture 
which  exhibits  the  hero  and  heroine  in  the  aspect 
which  proves  the  whole  point  of  the  story;  whether 
it  be  tragic  or  of  the  comedy  or  melodrama  order. 
Plot  construction  is  the  most  important  thing 
about  writing.  An  acquaintance  with  the  best 
literature  in  his  particular  line  is  essential  to  an 
author,  who  ought  to  be  familiar  with  the  classics 
as  well  as  with  the  fiction  of  his  own  day.  It  is 
also  well  to  study  the  methods  of  those  who 
have  successfully  wrought.  Read  the  "Confes- 
sions" of  various  well-known  authors  who  are 
tempted  to  give  them  to  the  public,  and  learn  from 
these  what  to  avoid  and  what  to  practise.  But 
although  it  is  a  good  thing  to  study  other  people's 
methods,  practice  is,  after  all,  the  only  way  in 
which  to  learn  to  become  an  expert  in  your  art. 
One  of  the  best  exercises  for  a  young  writer  is  to 


46  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

analyze  the  plots  of  good  novels.  Digging  the  heart 
out  of  a  story,  pulling  it  to  pieces,  is  not  as  easy  as 
the  child's  game  of  picking  a  flower  to  pieces  to  pry 
into  its  secrets.  It  is  a  task  difficult  enough  to  try 
the  calibre  of  the  stoutest  courage,  but  it  pays  well 
in  the  end.  You  might  begin  by  analyzing  a  short 
story  after  this  fashion: 

"A  Romance  of  Billy  Goat  Hill,"  by  Alice  Hegan 
Rice,  is  a  simple  modern  story  known  to  almost 
everybody.  You  can  get  it  from  any  library.  Read 
it  over  carefully,  have  your  notebook  ready,  and 
begin  to  search  for  the  following  items:  First,  what 
was  the  purpose  of  the  author  or  the  point  she 
wished  to  prove  in  writing  her  story.  It  is  clearly 
disclosed  by  an  exclamation  of  the  author  brought 
in  as  a  comment  in  a  certain  situation,  "Oh,  the 
promises  made  for  a  day  and  kept  through  the 
years!  What  a  lot  of  tangled  lives  they  have  to 
answer  for!"  Once  you  have  seized  this  point  the 
way  in  which  the  story  is  unfolded  has  a  distinct 
meaning  for  you.  You  divine  at  once  that  if  there  is 
to  be  a  happy  ending  a  price  must  be  paid  for  it. 
But  the  character  of  the  story  is  not  tragic;  it  is 
bright  and  consistently  cheerful.  So,  even  if  the 
promise  involves  suffering,  a  rescue  of  the  hero  and 
heroine  will  somehow  be  wrought  out.  Note  down 
the  climax:  that  a  dumb  boy  almost  miraculously 


THE  PLOT  47 

recovers  speech  in  time  to  testify  and  free  the 
accused  man.  The  plot  is  simple:  a  fight  at  cards 
between  two  drunkards;  an  innocent  third  impli- 
cated, and  the  suspense  element  of  his  trial.  The 
character  drawing  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the 
value  of  the  story.  The  plot  runs  a  little  to  melo- 
drama, but  is  interesting  and  clever.  You  have 
noted  that  the  three  points  are:  first,  to  find  the 
motif  of  the  author;  second,  to  recognize  the  climax 
and  mark  step  by  step  the  incidents  that  have  been 
gathered  together  to  lead  up  to  the  climax;  third, 
to  criticise  the  characters  with  the  view  of  discover- 
ing whether  they  are  well  related  to  the  plot. 

You  may  follow  out  this  same  process  of  analysis 
with  any  story.  Another  plan  is  to  analyze  stories 
you  have  witnessed  on  the  screen.  Such  a  story  as 
"The  Sporting  Duchess"  is  simple  and  strong 
enough  to  give  you  good  points.  The  motif  here 
is  plainly  that  honest  love  will  find  its  way  out 
through  any  net  that  villainy  spreads  for  it.  The 
climax  is  the  triumph  of  the  Duchess  when  Clips- 
ton,  the  horse,  wins  the  race  for  her.  There  is  great 
suspense  element  in  the  plot,  as  the  villain  seems 
constantly  on  the  point  of  coming  out  ahead.  The 
character  of  Lord  Desbrow,  a  clean,  honest,  simple 
Englishman,  keeps  the  human  interest  strong  and 
well  to  the  fore.  The  plot  is  simple,  and  while  there 


48  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

is  constant  action  there  are  no  complications.  All 
this  makes  it  a  good  model  plot  to  study. 

You  will  have  found  out  by  now  the  truth  of 
Poe's  suggestion  that  a  good  story  should  begin 
with  the  end  and  work  forward  to  the  beginning. 
This  rule  relates  to  the  planning  of  your  story. 
Before  beginning  the  actual  writing  you  should  lay 
out  a  clear,  brief  plan.  Make  an  outline  of  your 
plot  in  a  couple  of  hundred  words,  putting  your 
strength  upon  the  climax  or  ending.  Whatever 
weakness  there  is  let  it  fall  in  the  middle  of  your 
story,  for  the  beginning  must  be  interesting  and 
the  climax  strong.  The  difference  between  a  mere 
sketch  and  a  story  is  that  in  the  latter  something 
actually  happens.  Outline  your  plot,  then,  not  as 
a  narrative  or  a  sketch,  but  as  a  brief  description  of 
an  action.  Memorize  this  little  outline  and  carry 
it  with  you  constantly  day  and  night.  Let  it  stay 
in  the  depths  of  your  mind  even  when  you  are 
thinking  about  other  things.  Relate  it  to  every- 
thing interesting  that  you  see  or  that  happens  to 
you.  This  plot  germ  of  yours  should  be  like  an 
octopus  that  gathers  in  from  the  outside  every 
succulent  thing  that  floats  within  its  grasp.  Your 
own  mind  furnishes  the  inspiration,  but  the  out- 
side world  furnishes  the  material  out  of  which  to 
develop  your  idea. 


THE  PLOT  49 

In  the  screen  story  we  have  just  been  speaking 
of,  "The  Sporting  Duchess,"  the  plot  is  usually 
called  one  of  heart  interest.  Stories  touching  upon 
love,  family  affection,  devotion,  and  sacrifice  are 
all  heart  interest  stories.  The  triangle  story,  or 
jealousy  in  love,  is  at  the  foundation  of  nearly  all 
melodrama.  It  is  a  mine  that  has  often  been  badly 
worked.  The  crudest,  most  sensational  sort  of 
stuff  has  been  produced  by  amateur  writers  with 
j'ealousy  as  the  theme.  For  the  superficial  writer 
this  plot  is  a  dangerous  one  to  handle.  You  should 
know  a  great  deal  of  human  nature  and  have  had 
considerable  experience  of  life  before  you  try  to 
write  melodrama.  The  young  writer  here  makes 
his  great  mistake;  in  taking  love  and  jealousy  as 
his  theme.  He  sometimes  gets  it  over  by  throwing 
in  a  great  deal  of  picturesque  action,  but  it  is  stuff 
that  will  not  stand  the  test  of  criticism  and  con- 
sequently lasts  but  for  a  day.  Good  work  must  be 
sound  all  the  way  through,  and  you  must  aim  to 
have  a  logical  plot  founded  upon  some  true  princi- 
ple of  human  nature  and  true  to  life. 

The  domestic  plot,  usually  a  story  of  young  mar- 
ried life,  or  of  a  father  and  daughter,  mother  and 
son,  or  sisters  and  brothers,  separated  and  brought 
together,  may  make  the  substance  of  interesting 
and  pleasing  stories.  The  photoplay  "Stepping 


50  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

Out"  is  an  excellent  instance  of  what  maybe  done 
with  simple  material  in  this  line.  In  such  a  story  as 
this  the  characters  are  of  great  importance,  and 
the  situations  must  be  wrought  out  with  the  utmost 
skill  because  the  interest  lies  not  so  much  in  inten- 
sity as  in  the  satisfaction  provoked  by  each  incident 
in  turn.  « 

If  you  have  a  natural  turn  for  humor  the  way 
before  you  is  easy.  Humorous  stories  are  eagerly 
sought  for  by  scenario  editors  and  welcomed  with 
avidity  by  the  audience.  What  is  known  as  "  slap- 
stick comedy  "  is  now  usually  studio  work,  and  the 
stories  are  often  written  by  the  stars  themselves  to 
suit  their  own  particular  gifts.  Here  plot  is  at  a 
discount  and  the  whole  interest  is  in  the  piling  up 
of  amusing  and  commonly  monstrous  situations. 
There  is  one  trouble;  audiences  have  now  grown  so 
exacting  that  nothing  can  satisfy  them.  Each  day 
they  look  for  something  more  extraordinary,  and  it 
is  rather  the  business  of  the  star  than  the  screen 
story  writer  to  aim  toward  productions  of  this 
nature. 

But  there  is  another  comedy  of  a  more  refined 
sort  which  demands  a  humorous  turn  of  mind 
united  with  considerable  art.  The  Drew  comedies 
are  instances.  They  are  always  looked  forward  to 
when  announced  on  the  programme  and  almost  in- 


THE  PLOT  51 

variably  enjoyed  by  the  audience.  They  do  not 
tax  the  attention  of  wearied  minds  as  strong  melo- 
drama sometimes  does;  consequently  their  appeal 
is  as  great  to  men  as  it  is  to  women.  The  writing  of 
these  playful  little  comedies  is  pretty  work,  but  the 
market  for  them  is  limited  and  there  are  few  stars 
in  this  line  and  they  often  write  their  own  stories. 
There  is  now  left  but  one  plot;  that  of  the  emo- 
tional drama.  This  is  deeper  than  the  heart  inter- 
est story,  insomuch  as  it  deals  with  the  prof  ounder 
passions  of  the  human  heart.  The  role  of  the  star  is 
the  most  vital  thing  in  a  drama  of  this  description. 
Nazimova  plays  in  emotional  roles  and  makes 
everything  subordinate  to  her  part.  In  watching 
her  magnificent  acting  one  forgets  the  story. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  PLOT  (concluded) 

THE  historical  play  seems  to  offer  fascinating  vistas 
to  the  young  writer,  as  it  gives  him  a  background 
all  prepared,  a  certain  outline  of  plot,  and  strongly 
outlined  characters.  He  has  knowledge  enough  of 
his  facts  to  equip  him,  and  he  imagines  that  with 
all  these  data  he  is  prepared  to  start  off  on  a  course 
of  successful  historic  drama. 

But  this  is  an  error.  Knowledge  of  history  is  es- 
sential, of  course,  but  far  more  than  the  possession 
of  data  is  needed.  Historical  drama  should  have 
the  element  of  greatness  in  it,  else  it  lapses  into  the 
merely  trivial.  An  author  who  takes  it  as  his  field 
must  have  a  deep  acquaintance  with  human  na- 
ture and  an  understanding  of  the  ways  in  which 
Nature  has  worked  out  her  plans  through  the  me- 
dium of  the  races  of  men. 

The  writer  of  historical  plays  should  know  some- 
thing of  psychology  and  much  of  sociology;  more- 
over, to  knowledge  he  must  add  the  gift  of  a  pene- 
trating sympathy  with  his  fellow-men  and  the 
prescience  which  can  relate  the  future  to  the  past. 
Every  one  is  familiar  with  the  saying,  "History 


THE  PLOT  (  53 

repeats  itself."  But  few  of  us  have  ever  pondered 
upon  the  problem  of  the  recurrence  in  the  world 
of  certain  types  of  catastrophe  and  of  prosper- 
ity among  nations.  Why  did  Rome  fall  at  the 
moment  of  her  proudest  triumph?  Why  did  the 
Greeks,  having  reached  almost  the  apex  of  re- 
finement of  the  artistic  sense,  become  transformed 
into  a  race  of  weaklings  and  sensualists,  and  show 
effeminacy  in  war?  Why  did  the  Basques  become 
distinguished  above  the  greater  race  with  which 
they  mingled?  Why  —  but  scores  of  questions  sug- 
gest themselves  to  the  thoughtful  mind,  and  unless 
they  can  be  answered  intelligently,  no  writer  dare 
consider  himself  equipped  with  the  sort  of  brain 
which  can  undertake  the  writing  of  history. 

The  chronicler  of  dead-and-gone  facts  is  a  mere 
tyro  in  the  art  of  dramatic  writing.  The  faculty  of 
"relationing"  —  of  twisting  a  glittering  chain  of 
illuminating  events  into  a  convincing  conclusion  — 
is  the  mark  of  a  genius  of  this  order.  Compare  the 
triteness  of  such  an  historian  as  Robertson  with 
the  vivid  imagery  of  Froissart  or  Green.  Nearly 
every  one  is  familiar  with  Green's  "History  of 
the  English  People,"  a  delightful  narrative  which 
breathes  the  very  spirit  of  life  into  personages  of 
long  ago.  Instead  of  bringing  before  us  the  stony 
profiles  carved  on  coffin  lids,  he  presents  to  us  a 


54  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

wonderful  procession  of  interesting  figures,  kings, 
queens,  statesmen,  knights  and  ladies,  gay  and 
gorgeous  or  solemn  and  hypocritical,  but  never 
inanimate  or  mechanical.  A  woman  historian  of  the 
Victorian  age,  narrow  and  bigoted  as  she  was,  had 
the  charm  of  style,  the  sympathy  with  her  charac- 
ters which  made  one  overlook  her  many  faults 
as  to  accuracy,  and  read  her  historical  narratives 
with  pleasure  and  profit.  I  allude  to  Charlotte 
M.  Yonge,  now  almost  forgotten,  but  who  was 
greatly  esteemed  in  her  age  as  a  wonder  of  learn- 
ing and  a  delightful  author.  Her  tales,  "The 
Little  Duke/'  "A  Chaplet  of  Pearls,"  and  even 
"The  Heir  of  Redclyffe"  (absurd  in  its  sentimen- 
tality, but  excellent  in  its  atmosphere),  might 
give  several  valuable  suggestions  to  the  young 
writer  who  is  ambitious  of  acquiring  the  secrets 
of  historical  presentation. 

The  writer  with  the  true  instinct  for  historic 
drama  has  the  gift  of  seizing  the  inner  meaning  of 
his  subject  and  presenting  it  to  the  world  of  his 
readers  in  terms  of  the  present  day.  The  ability  to 
re-create  the  scenes  of  the  past  is  nothing  unless  it 
is  united  with  the  power  to  project  one's  self  into 
the  spirit  of  those  who  lived  in  olden  times. 
Swinnerton  said  that  a  great  creative  artist  must 
possess  a  passionate  understanding  of  the  soul  of 


THE  PLOT  55 

man.  This  sounds  formidable,  but  few  among  us 
dare  pride  ourselves  upon  even  having  the  ambition 
to  become  great  artists.  We  humbly  hope  to  do 
creditable  work.  So  we  may  consider  cheerfully 
that,  after  all,  "passionate  understanding"  is  little 
more  than  deep,  broad  sympathy,  and  many  of  us 
either  possess  or  can  cultivate  that.  It  grows  with 
cultivation,  for  moods  are  all  more  or  less  habits, 
and  if  we  practise  the  habit  of  sympathizing  with 
woes  and  joys  of  our  fellows  we  rapidly  arrive  at 
an  understanding  of  them.  For  true  insight  into 
human  nature  many  an  unlettered  old  country 
woman  with  a  feeling  heart  may  rival  a  learned 
philosopher.  George  Eliot  knew  this  and  proved  it 
in  her  stories  of  English  country  life.  If  you  are 
planning  historical  stories  of  an  epoch  in  the 
near-by  past,  visit  rural  districts  and  win  your  way 
into  the  hearts  of  the  "oldest  inhabitants,"  and 
get  them  on  their  hobbies  of  reminiscence.  To 
learn  you  must  become  a  good  listener,  for  material 
gained  in  this  way  is  worth  more  than  that  which 
you  get  from  mere  reading.  To  write  historical 
stuff  you  positively  must  know  how  to  draw  char- 
acter. In  the  true  historical  drama  the  charac- 
ter is  the  chief  factor.  The  story  centres  about 
some  towering  figure,  a  Washington,  a  Lincoln,  a 
Napoleon,  a  Richard  the  Third,  a  Queen  Elizabeth, 


56  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

or  even  a  Puritan  woman.  How  profoundly  Haw- 
thorne had  penetrated  into  the  bitter  secrets  of  the 
human  heart  before  he  wrote  "The  Scarlet  Let- 
ter"! And  the  gifted  author  of  "Romola"  said 
that  the  book  was  begun  when  she  was  a  young 
woman  and  it  left  her  an  old  one,  so  thoroughly  did 
she  identify  herself  with  her  subject. 

Not  only  are  understanding  and  sympathy  es- 
sential to  good  historical  drama,  but  the  screen 
story  writer  must,  in  addition,  have  the  adroitness 
to  write  to  some  extent  around  prominent  stars. 
Not  every  actor  can  portray  characters  with  whom 
all  the  world  is  familiar  and  that  will  be  sharply 
criticised  from  the  standpoint  of  accuracy.  On 
the  whole,  it  is  a  difficult  part  of  the  art  and  had 
best  be  left  to  the  expert. 

Race  problems  and  religious  problems  are  also 
themes  beset  by  obstacles  and  had  better  be  con- 
spicuous by  their  absence.  If  you  are  interested 
in  local  or  national  politics,  you  have  sometimes  a 
ready-made  topic  which  will  start  you  off  on  a  story. 
Suffrage  and  prohibition  are  rather  exhausted  as 
topics;  still,  a  new  twist  given  to  an  old  subject  may 
redeem  it  from  its  triteness.  Some  producing  com- 
panies refuse  to  have  anything  to  do  with  propa- 
ganda stories,  and  although  if  you  have  the  instinct 
of  the  reformer  nothing  will  stop  you,  I  merely 


THE  PLOT  57 

drop  here  the  word  of  advice  that  the  story  for  the 
story's  sake  has  the  fairer  prospect. 

If  you  happen  to  be  deeply  interested  in  any 
social  problem,  take  your  interest  as  a  "lead"  and 
get  to  work  upon  that  subject.  You  will  do  your 
best  work  when  stirred  by  enthusiasm  and  along 
the  lines  where  your  interest  lies.  Local  environ- 
ment will  unconsciously  influence  you  in  your 
choice  of  a  subject.-  If  you  happen  to  be  brought 
into  contact  with  social  workers,  the  tenement- 
house  problem  will  appeal  to  you;  association  with 
hospital  workers  and  teachers  will  incite  your 
sympathy  in  their  dilemmas  and  trials  and  you  will 
then  write  from  the  inside. 

But  if  you  are  dealing  with  much- worked  topics 
you  must  bring  out  some  unusual  aspect  of  your 
subject.  Put  freshness  into  an  old  theme,  create 
novel  situations  and  make  your  characters  very 
much  alive.  Make  an  effort  to  get  out  of  the  rut 
and  seek  unploughed  fields.  Even  if  you  should 
happen  to  live  in  a  dull  country  place  there  is  no 
reason  for  you  to  be  discouraged  over  finding 
material  for  your  plots.  No  spot  is  dull  to  the  per- 
son who  has  acute  perceptions.  The  very  forest 
birds  sing  their  songs  of  primeval  life;  the  seashore 
contains  a  thousand  suggestions;  the  tops  of 
mountains  have  an  inspiration  that  may  lift  the 


58  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

fancy  into  delightful  realms.  A  new  atmosphere  is 
a  fertile  source  of  plots,  and  musing  upon  the 
present  aspect  of  the  land  is  likely  to  turn  your 
thoughts  toward  the  past,  and  arouse  in  you  desires 
to  make  empty  places  live  again  as  they  lived  in 
the  days  gone  by.  How  many  stories  of  the  Wild 
West  have  grown  out  of  an  adventure  of  some 
lonely  traveller  in  deserted  lands!  A  day  spent  in 
a  "jumping-off  place"  may  be  the  very  spur  to 
novel  effort,  and  the  writer  must  ever  be  ready 
to  sacrifice  comfort,  convenience,  and  conventions 
to  the  possibility  of  getting  hold  of  good  material. 
Suppose  you  have  to  lie  by  some  day,  when  a  train 
accident  has  delayed  your  journey  and  given  you 
hours  that  you  scarcely  know  how  to  fill;  you  need 
not  regard  that  as  lost  time  nor  repine  over  a 
fruitless  period.  Perhaps  fate  gave  into  your  hands 
a  queer  chance;  profit  by  it.  The  most  barren- 
seeming  spot  may  hide  treasures  of  plot.  The  bril- 
liant author  of  "Mrs.  Wiggs  of  the  Cabbage 
Patch"  told  me  that  she  was  not  looking  for  this 
story  when  it  chanced  to  come  to  her  through  a 
sight  of  an  old  field  which  lay  near  her  residence,  a 
sort  of  eye-sore  to  the  neighborhood  and  without 
interest  for  any  human  being,  until  her  genius 
seized  an  occult  association  and  brought  a  wonder- 
ful little  tale  to  the  light.  Mary  E.  Wilkins,  as  is 


THE  PLOT  59 

well  known,  drew  her  plots  from  the  most  quiet 
and  monotonous  village  existence.  As  I  said  at  the 
beginning  of  this  chapter  it  is  not  the  material,  but 
the  power  to  use  it  in  the  right  way,  that  proves 
your  possession  of  talent. 

The  divorce  problem  has  always  been,  and  will 
always  be,  a  deeply  interesting  topic  for  discussion. 
It  has  so  many  complications,  it  admits  of  so  many 
points  of  view.  Most  of  the  divorce  plots  have 
been  worn  threadbare,  but  if  you  can  work  out  an 
original  conception  or  turn  an  old  situation  into 
novel  ones,  you  may  produce  some  very  successful 
stuff.  But  the  topic  demands  delicate  handling 
and  the  right  point  of  view.  If  you  are  a  heretic,  if 
you  have  original  theories  to  advance,  and  wish  to 
propose  some  sort  of  reforms  that  will  certainly 
excite  controversy,  I  should  advise  your  not  put- 
ting them  into  a  screen  story;  at  least,  before  your 
reputation  enables  you  to  put  over  whatever  you 
choose.  The  beginner  must  tread  the  beaten  path 
for  a  while;  he  is  not  permitted  to  take  canters  into 
risky  fields.  So  divorce,  again,  is  not  the  very  best 
plot  idea  for  you  to  begin  with. 

One  thing  must  be  carefully  considered,  the 
advisability  of  the  happy  ending.  Tragedy  is  the 
finest  product  of  the  human  mind.  It  stands  above 
all  other  forms  of  writing  as  the  highly  polished 


60  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

diamond  does  above  other  stones.  Only  the  writer 
of  ripened  powers  and  deep  life  experience  should 
undertake  the  tragic  plot.  The  novice  is  usually 
tempted  to  try  his  hand  at  it,  just  as  the  young  actor 
is  irresistibly  led  toward  emotional  drama,  even  if 
he  has  a  natural  bent  toward  comedy.  He  yearns 
after  the  dignity  of  the  thing.  Nobody  should  ab- 
solutely control  his  natural  bias,  and  if  you  are 
impelled  toward  tragedy,  Heaven  direct  you  and 
success  be  with  you!  But  the  need  of  the  happy 
ending  will  be  evident  to  you  if  you  will  study 
the  weary,  discouraged  faces  of  the  passing  crowd. 
People  go  to  the  moving  picture  theatre  to  be  dis- 
tracted from  their  troubles  and  diverted  from  their 
gloom.  They  need  to  be  brightened  and  cheered, 
and  made  to  feel  that,  after  all,  there  is  something 
good,  bright,  and  hopeful  about  life.  So  if  you  can 
produce  a  story  that  makes  people  happier  and 
better  you  will  have  supplied  a  real  need. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  CHARACTERS 

THE  chapter  on  characters  naturally  falls  into  two 
parts  and  may  be  dealt  with  under  two  heads.  We 
will  consider  first  the  character  as  your  brain 
creation.  It  is  very  fascinating  work  —  this  of 
bringing  forth  from  the  void  a  living,  breathing 
creature  imbued  with  your  own  life  and  spirit. 
For  do  what  you  will  to  make  your  characters 
things  apart  and  outside  of  yourself,  they  will  per- 
sist in  drawing  the  very  essence  of  their  being  from 
their  author. 

Jean  Paul  wrote  this:  "The  character  must  ap- 
pear living  before  you,  and  you  must  hear  it,  not 
merely  see  it;  it  must,  as  takes  place  in  dreams, 
dictate  to  you,  not  you  to  it.  A  poet  who  must 
reflect  whether,  in  a  given  case,  he  will  make  his 
character  say  yes  or  no,  to  the  devil  with  him!" 
Now,  this  is  all  very  well  as  far  as  it  goes,  but  the 
author  who  is  going  to  permit  his  character  to  take 
absolute  possession  of  him  in  this  manner  must 
have  a  strong,  clearly  outlined  plot  into  which 
these  privileged  characters  slip  deftly  and  easily 
to  their  proper  niches;  or  else  they  will  become  like 


62  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

a  team  of  unbroken  colts  and  snatch  the  reins  out 
of  his  hands. 

The  first  essential  of  a  character  is  that  he  should 
become  alive  and  be  recognized  as  an  individual, 
but  the  second  thing  is  that  he  should  never  be 
allowed  to  do  anything  that  is  inconsistent  with 
your  plot.  A  character  is  a  representative  sent 
to  Congress  —  if  we  may  use  the  metaphor  —  to 
stand  for  certain  wants  and  ideas  of  his  constit- 
uency. Call  your  story  Congress  and  then  you 
will  see  you  are  the  elector  of  this  representative  — 
character  —  and  that  he  is  bound  to  act  in  your 
interest.  He  is  not  selfishly  to  take  his  own  head 
and  do  things  that  might  turn  your  plot  upside 
down.  Real  people  are  complex  and  inconsistent, 
but  characters  must  be  logical  and  simple. 

In  the  screen  story  simplicity  —  that  is,  direct, 
firm  purpose  —  is  the  prime  necessity  for  a  charac- 
ter. You  will  realize  this  when  you  remember  that 
he  is  to  show  himself  forth;  that  is  his  aim  —  clear 
self-portrayal.  It  often  happens  that  a  writer  sees 
his  character  in  his  mind  so  clearly  that  he  fancies 
the  figure  which  is  so  vivid  to  himself  must  be 
equally  apparent  to  his  readers.  If  you  would  avoid 
this  fault  describe  your  character  for  yourself  in 
a  few  strong,  colorful  words.  Sketch  him  in  when 
he  first  appears  before  you.  Describe  his  physical 


THE  CHARACTERS  63  < 

appearance  and  give  him  personality.  When  you 
come  to  set  him  into  your  play  he  may  become  a 
type,  but  for  you  he  must  be  from  the  first  an 
individual.  Visualize  the  dress  of  your  characters; 
their  attitude  and  bearing.  Throw  yourself  into 
their  natures  enough  to  see  things  through  their 
eyes.  Let  them  hear,  feel,  and  see.  But  at  the 
same  time  you  should  keep  in  mind  that  whatever 
they  do  must  harmonize  with  the  motif  of  your 
story. 

Authors  are  apt  to  excel  either  in  plot  or  in 
character  drawing,  but  the  screen  story  writer 
must  be  good  in  both.  The  scenario  editor  and 
director  can  do  nothing  with  flimsy,  weak  charac- 
ters, nor  is  it  their  part  to  imbue  your  manikins 
with  life.  You  must  draw  your  own  heroes  and 
heroines  so  finely  that  they  will  at  once  seem  like 
living  people  to  the  scenario  editor.  In  order  to 
do  this  you  should  study  real  life,  but  not  neglect 
the  study  of  good  literature.  Go  to  Dickens  for 
good  character  drawing  of  common  people,  go  to 
Thackeray  for  wonderful  portraits  of  society  peo- 
ple. "Vanity  Fair,"  "The  Newcomes,"  and  "Pen- 
dennis"  are  mines  of  wealth  to  the  writer  of  the 
comedy  drama.  It  is  one  thing  to  plagiarize  and 
another  thing  to  borrow.  All  young  writers  are 
obliged  to  borrow  until  they  have  achieved  such  a 


64  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

full  experience  that  they  can  originate.  Study  of 
good  literature  should  not  interfere  with  a  keen  and 
constant  study  of  life.  A  good  dramatist  must 
study  "all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men."  He  should 
make  free  use  of  his  notebooks  and  jot  down  traits 
and  habits  of  people  he  meets  as  well  as  odd  inci- 
dents in  which  they  are  concerned.  This  will  help 
him  to  realize  their  weak  and  strong  points  and  to 
understand  how  they  will  naturally  act  under  given 
circumstances.  When  you  create  your  characters 
you  should  be  able  to  make  them  show  what  they 
are  by  the  little  things  they  do.  Then  your  audi- 
ence will  understand  them.  A  character's  function 
is  an  immense  one  because  his  acts  must  fill  in  gaps 
left  in  a  screen  story  that  do  not  appear  in  a  literary 
story  where  word  description  is  permitted.  The 
first  appearance  your  characters  make  in  your 
story  must  give  a  strong  impression.  Their  first 
acts  stamp  them  with  their  type  in  the  eyes  of  the 
audience,  and  you  must  always  make  it  plain  to 
your  audience  what  type  your  various  characters 
are.  The  old  play  writers,  Moliere  and  Sheridan, 
always  brought  their  characters  on  the  stage  in 
their  atmosphere.  The  dude  was  instantly  recog- 
nizable, the  society  woman  could  not  be  mistaken 
for  anything  else,  the  musician  as  truly  had  his 
personal  stamp  as  the  bailiff,  the  pot  boy,  and 


THE  CHARACTERS  65 

the  coachman.  The  audience  will  expect  from  a 
character  thereafter  about  the  same  sort  of  action 
which  he  performs  at  first.  Sudden  and  radical 
changes  of  character  —  reformation  of  an  evil 
nature  —  may  take  place  on  the  screen,  but  unless 
handled  with  great  artistry  these  transformations 
are  awkward  and  unnatural.  The  slow  develop- 
ment of  character,  such  as  is  shown  in  novels  of  the 
kind  called  epic  novels,  is  not  at  present  possible 
on  the  screen.  On  the  contrary,  a  certain  abrupt- 
ness is  attractive.  Your  atmosphere  may  be  mel- 
low, but  your  characters  must  be  sudden  and 
swift  in  action.  As  they  come  and  go  they  should 
always  carry  a  little  piece  of  the  story  with  them. 
The  object  of  the  screen  character  is  to  develop 
your  story  motif,  and  so  a  great  many  sides  of  his 
nature  which  it  would  be  logical  to  reveal  in  a 
literary  story  are  here  necessarily  kept  in  the  back- 
ground. You  must  not  be  subtle,  but  rather  bold 
and  dashing  in  your  delineation  of  your  story 
characters.  Review  the  list  of  your  acquaintances 
with  the  aim  of  making  them  useful  as  material. 
Close  your  eyes  to  all  their  minor  traits  and  fix  your 
mind  firmly  upon  the  salient  points  which  make 
them  differ  from  the  rest  of  mankind.  It  is  only  to 
the  superficial  observer  that  all  people  seem  alike. 
De  Maupassant,  who  was  almost  a  fanatical  ob- 


66  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

server  of  details,  said  that  a  literary  artist  should 
look  at  a  horse  long  and  closely  enough  to  realize 
that  he  was  different  from  every  other  horse  in  the 
world.  Scientists  tell  us  that  no  two  leaves  on  all 
the  trees  are  alike.  It  is  incredible  but  true  that 
no  two  ripples  on  the  surface  of  the  waters  take 
precisely,  the  same  turn  as  they  wave  away  toward 
the  line  of  eternity.  In  families  no  two  members 
duplicate  one  another.  Some  sentimental  old 
writers  were  fond  of  depicting  twin  brothers  or 
sisters  as  alike  as  two  peas  in  a  pod.  Thackeray,  on 
the  contrary,  in  "The  Virginians,"  made  his  twin 
brothers,  George  and  Harry,  strikingly  different 
in  looks  and  nature.  If  twins  are  unlike  it  is  a  con- 
clusive argument  that  the  generality  of  people  only 
resemble  one  another  superficially.  It  is  the  busi- 
ness of  the  writer  to  distinguish  differences  between 
people.  It  will  help  you  to  do  this  if  you  make  even 
a  slight  study  of  psychology.  A  very  good  little 
book  has  been  written  by  Compayre  and  it  is 
obtainable  in  most  public  libraries.  Read  carefully 
through  either  this  or  some  other  similar  book  in 
order  to  get  an  understanding  of  how  mind  acts  and 
how  the  emotions  affect  character.  Then  apply 
your  knowledge  constantly  to  individual  cases. 
Ask  yourself  of  this  person  or  of  that  one,  "What 
strong  trait  adheres  in  his  nature  even  through  all 


THE  CHARACTERS  67 

the  variations  of  his  conduct?  Does  he  seem  to  be 
chiefly  guided  by  affection,  ambition,  greed,  selfish- 
ness, humane  impulses,  love  of  children,  egotism,  or 
is  he  under  the  dominion  of  shyness  or  vanity?'* 
When  you  have  convinced  yourself  that  the  person 
you  are  studying  is  moved  by  a  certain  impulse, 
you  will  be  able  to  define  pretty  accurately  what 
his  conduct  under  given  circumstances  is  likely 
to  be. 

Every  device  by  which  you  can  get  into  greater 
intimacy  with  your  characters  is  useful.  Do  not 
shirk  work  nor  imagine  that  a  few  slight  efforts  will 
turn  out  finished  creations.  Very  few  authors  can 
depict  a  character  in  a  few  broad,  bold  strokes. 
Most  of  us  have  to  sketch  and  alter  and  retouch 
many  times  before  we  produce  something  that  will 
bear  the  test  of  criticism.  Personally,  I  have  found 
it  useful  to  choose  some  picture  that  is  similar  to 
the  idea  I  have  in  mind  and  work  from  that.  Be- 
fore planting  your  character  in  your  big  story, 
experiment  with  him,  write  out  little  incidents  that 
seem  to  fit  him.  In  fact  make  him  act  to  see  what 
stuff  he  is  made  of.  When  the  moment  comes  for 
your  character  to  make  his  debut  before  your  au- 
dience, give  him  as  favorable  a  setting  as  possible. 
The  circumstances  with  which  he  is  surrounded 
will  have  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  impression 


68  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

he  makes  upon  the  audience.  Manage  your  envi- 
ronment so  as  to  suggest  just  as  much  as  you  wish 
to  indicate  at  the  moment  of  his  entrance  upon  the 
stage  and  no  more.  Contrive  to  hint  at  what  he  is 
likely  to  do,  but  do  not  fully  reveal  it.  The  first 
appearance  of  your  hero  or  heroine  should  start 
the  great  suspense  movement  which  is  the  vital 
part  of  your  story. 

You  have,  of  course,  experienced  the  little  im- 
patience which  stirs  in  an  audience,  witnessing  a 
strong  play  for  the  first  time,  at  the  appearance 
one  after  another  of  the  minor  characters.  As  each 
one  comes  there  is  the  expectant,  the  eager  little 
scrutiny,  the  question,  "Is  it  he?  Is  it  she?"  and 
then  the  satisfaction  and  applause  which  greet  the 
appearance  of  the  real  star.  So  reserve  for  your 
star  the  most  interesting  part  of  your  stage  setting. 
The  analogy  of  star  with  the  constellation  in  the 
firmament  is  no  idle  one.  It  means  that  the  leading 
character  in  a  play  should  really  shine  above  the 
rest.  For  your  star  should  be  reserved  all  the  most 
striking  situations  and  the  finest  speeches.  Other 
characters  come  and  go  merely  to  help  out;  in  a 
screen  story  the  star  is  really  the  whole  show. 

One  difference  between  the  writer  of  the  literary 
story  and  the  screen  story  is  that  the  latter  can 
never  for  a  moment  lose  sight  of  the  result,  the 


THE  CHARACTERS  69 

effect  that  is  to  be  produced.  In  order  to  realize 
something  of  the  effect  the  characters  you  have 
created  is  likely  to  produce  on  others,  study  the 
effect  that  characters  you  read  about  make  upon 
yourself.  A  few  characters  in  literature  stand  out 
boldly  and  make  a  single  effect,  like  Othello, 
Richard  the  Third,  Jean  Valjean;  while  others 
produce  a  mixed  effect  as  Becky  Sharp,  Lady 
Dedlock,  or  Pendennis.  The  tendency  of  modern 
drama  is  toward  these  single  effects  in  characters, 
and  the  writer  of  screen  stories  must  even  more 
than  the  dramatist  aim  toward  this.  In  fact,  the 
simpler,  almost  childlike  characters  have  made  the 
greatest  "hits."  What  is  there  in  the  play  "Polly- 
anna"  except  the  idea  of  "always  being  glad"? 
And  yet  that  little  play  has  swept  critical  audi- 
ences off  their  feet  and  won  acclaim  from  world- 
worn  men  and  women.  Look  upon  your  story  for  a 
moment  as  a  piece  of  tapestry  and  aim  to  weave 
through  the  mesh  of  your  threads  one  or  two  vivid 
figures  around  which  are  grouped  minor  ones  in 
attitudes  that  serve  to  show  off  the  beauty  of  the 
central  personages.  So  must  you  aim  to  place  the 
characters  in  your  screen  story  as  objects  of  intense 
interest  thrown  into  relief  by  their  surrounding 
attendants.  Your  star  should  be  always  in  high 
light  so  far  as  the  interest  of  the  audience  is  con- 


70  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

cerned.   So  even  when  they  are  out  of  sight  they 
must  never  be  out  of  mind. 

Now,  all  this  effect  is  not  easy  to  produce.  It  is 
the  result  of  assiduous  work,  of  careful  study  of 
detail  as  well  as  of  good  judgment  regarding  the 
final  result.  One  suggestion  which  will  prevent 
monotony  is  this:  if  you  employ  ordinary  types  of 
characters  in  a  story  your  conditions  should  be 
unusual  while  extraordinary  types  of  characters 
may  have  ordinary  conditions.  This  does  not  refer 
to  the  plot  interest,  for,  of  course,  that  must  be 
strong  under  all  circumstances;  it  refers  to  the 
placing  of  your  characters.  Whatever  role  you  elect 
for  your  character  let  him  keep  strictly  to  that 
role.  If  his  prevailing  trait  is  tenderness,  do  not  let 
him  perform  some  act  that  is  brusque,  abrupt,  or 
ridiculous.  If  it  is  conveyed  to  the  audience  that  he 
has  a  sense  of  humor  manage  so  that  in  circum- 
stances likely  to  give  that  humor  play  he  shows  the 
trait  that  is  expected  of  him.  He  must  be  true  to 
type.  Your  miser  must  always  be  a  miser,  your 
egotist  be  continually  wrapped  up  in  himself,  your 
shallow  little  girl  always  stupid  and  inane.  In 
real  life  a  trained  parrot  may  utter  Greek  phrases, 
but  on  the  screen  he  had  better  keep  strictly  to 
"Polly  wants  a  cracker."  This  is  saying  in  plain 
words  that  from  the  first  appearance  of  your  char- 


THE  CHARACTERS  71 

acter  your  audience  will  form  an  idea  of  him  that 
should  not  be  contradicted  or  disappointed.  If  you 
can  manage  rather  to  gratify  their  expectations  in 
such  measure  that  they  will  say  to  themselves, 
"I  knew  that  was  coming.  Nothing  else  could 
have  happened,"  you  have  scored  a  point.  But  if  in 
the  development  of  your  story  the  characters  make 
a  departure  from  what  has  been  anticipated  by  the 
audience,  they  will  feel  disappointment  and  regret. 
This  is  unfortunate,  for  your  characters  should 
always  make  their  exit  from  the  stage  leaving  a 
gratified  feeling  behind  them. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  CHARACTER  CAST 

THE  position  of  a  screen  story  writer  is  similar  to 
that  of  a  hostess  who  undertakes  to  provide  enter- 
tainment for  a  set  of  guests.  Imagine  yourself  with 
the  responsibility  upon  you  of  entertaining  an 
audience  through  the  means  of  characters  which 
you  are  to  present  to  them.  You  will  see  how  nec- 
essary it  is  that  each  character  should  be  ade- 
quately presented,  introduced  in  such  a  happy  way 
that  he  will  make  a  distinct  impression.  By  a 
"character  cast"  is  meant  the  summing  up  of  the 
personages  in  your  story  in  such  a  way  that  the 
scenario  editor  will  quickly  grasp  their  peculiarities 
and  their  relations  to  each  other,  so  that  as  he 
introduces  them  one  after  another  upon  the  screen 
his  few  words  of  introduction  will  give  a  strong 
outline  of  their  personalities.  Your  first  object  is  to 
make  your  characters  interesting  through  these 
few  happy  words.  When  you  begin  to  make  out 
your  cast  place  at  the  head  of  your  page: 

CHARACTER  CAST 

! 
Then  the  name  of  the  leading  character  in  capitals, 

following  the  names  of  the  other  more  important 


THE  CHARACTER  CAST  73 

characters,  and  in  succession  those  which  are  of 
less  and  less  importance.  At  the  end  you  will 
usually  find  it  necessary  to  group  others  as  a  crowd, 
under  such  heads  as  children,  policemen,  chauffeurs, 
society  folk,  etc* 

It  is  not  necessary  to  accompany  each  character 
as  it  appears  with  an  exhaustive  description  of  his 
peculiarities,  his  dress,  and  so  on.  Elaborate  all  the 
details  for  yourself,  have  in  your  own  mind  a  com- 
plete picture  of  your  personages,  then  select  a  few 
traits  which  include  or  that  may  stand  for  all  the 
rest.  For  instance,  if  you  should  say,  "Wade  has 
fierce  eyes  and  a  hawk  nose,"  those  hints  are  suffi- 
cient to  give  a  fair  idea  of  the  visage  of  that  man. 
If  you  are  describing  your  attractive  heroine,  such 
a  phrase  as  this  would  bring  her  out  better  proba- 
bly than  many  long  ones:  "She  has  laughing  blue 
eyes,  a  dimple  on  each  cheek,  and  a  square  little 
chin."  This  brings  before  us  a  springtime  heroine 
freshly  gay  and  wilful.  Your  miserly  man  might 
be  described  by  saying  "Beneath  his  pent-house 
brows  his  little  eyes  seem  constantly  searching  the 
path  he  treads  for  pennies."  The  pathos  of  an 
overworked  seamstress  is  flashed  in  the  words, 
"Thin,  pallid  face,  skinny  neck,  and  trembling 
hands."  We  might  multiply  instances  indefinitely, 
but  these  are  enough  to  give  you  an  idea  of  how  to 


74  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

proceed  in  describing  the  physical  appearance  of 
your  characters. 

I  recommend  you  to  make  this  rough  cast  early 
in  your  work.  After  you  have  developed  your  plot 
and  polished  your  story,  you  will  revise  your  cast 
and  add  a  few  bits  of  description  indicating  the 
mental  attributes  of  your  personages.  This  is  the 
direct  portrayal  of  a  character  like  the  first  sketch 
an  artist  makes  of  the  figure  he  means  to  fill  in 
later.  In  literature  strong  characters  are  brought 
before  the  reader  mostly  through  the  talk  of  other 
characters.  This  cannot  be  done  on  the  screen,  but 
a  pretty  bit  of  work  can  be  wrought  out  by  showing 
the  effect  of  one  character  upon  another.  This 
properly  falls  under  the  head  of  what  is  called 
"business,"  and  the  intelligent  director  will  take 
charge  of  it.  But  without  intruding  upon  the  func- 
tion of  the  director  you  can  be  of  considerable  help 
to  him  by  indicating  either  in  your  character  cast 
or  in  your  synopsis  the  relation  characters  bear 
to  each  other.  Be  very  careful  about  the  selection 
of  names  for  your  characters.  Names  are  not  so 
important  on  the  screen  as  they  are  in  literature, 
for  they  flash  before  the  eyes  of  the  audience  for  a 
few  seconds  and  are  usually  soon  forgotten.  But 
qualities  inhere  in  names ;  Tom,  Bill,  Mary,  Martha, 
and  Jane  inevitably  bring  certain  associations  that 


THE  CHARACTER  CAST  75 

bias  us.  When  Vivian,  Beatrice,  or  Stella  appears 
on  the  screen,  we  unconsciously  look  for  something 
out  of  the  ordinary  to  follow.  Priscilla  suggests 
simplicity  and  daintiness  and  Jo  a  hoyden.  If  your 
character  is  to  play  comedy,  don't  weigh  him  down 
with  a  classical  name;  if  he  is  to  be  a  serious  hero, 
avoid  a  name  that  suggests  familiarity.  There  is 
something  about  the  name  of  Amos  that  seems  to 
put  a  man  apart  from  his  fellows.  Henry  is  usually 
a  good  name  for  a  lawyer  or  a  banker,  Frank  and 
Dick  are  the  "good-fellow"  sort  of  names,  while 
Edward  and  Stephen  are  dignified.  For  a  high- 
toned  society  lady,  Laura,  Myra,  Eleanor,  and 
Sybil  are  good  names;  while  women  of  a  business 
turn  of  mind  are  suitably  called  Caroline,  Ada, 
Harriet,  Marion,  or  Anna.  Your  cuddling,  domes- 
tic little  woman  naturally  falls  among  the  ies9 
Mollie,  Pollie,  Florie,  Minnie,  Allie,  and  all  the 
rest.  Dickens  excelled  in  the  invention  of  villain- 
ous names  for  his  characters.  I  frankly  shirk  the 
responsibility  of  suggesting  here,  but  with  a  little 
ingenuity  you  will  succeed  in  discovering  names 
that  carry  unpleasant  impressions. 

We  give  the  following  model  character  casts. 
The  first  one,  we  will  suppose,  belongs  to  a  story 
entitled  "The  Castaways,"  in  which  the  leading 
character  is  a  man  of  a  stern,  forbidding  type,  who 


76 


SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 


refuses  to  be  reconciled  with  his  erring  daughters 
until  he  lies  on  his  deathbed.  So  we  would  put  it 
this  way: 

THE  CASTAWAYS 

By  DORIS  BROWN 


EMILY  EPPS 


LUCY  EPPS 


HAL  SMYTH 


MAJOR  WILKS 


a  wilful,  capricious  girl  about  twenty, 
with  black  eyes  that  melt  and  glow  with 
the  deepest  feelings,  and  drive  men 
crazy  about  her.  She  has  a  voluptuous 
mouth,  a  beautiful  form,  and  a  cold 
heart.  All  women  dislike  her  except  her 
younger  sister,  who  is  completely  under 
her  evil  influence. 

a  timid,  blue-eyed  little  thing,  naturally 
merry  and  honest,  but  afraid  to  take  any 
step  without  the  consent  of  EMILY, 
whom  she  has  always  obeyed.  She  is 
pretty,  in  the  "angelic"  style,  and 
attracts  the  men  who  do  not  care  for 
EMILY;  therefore,  she  is  never  a  rival  to 
her  sister. 

a  fast  young  man  with  more  money  than 
brains,  short  and  red-faced,  blustering 
in  manner.  He  has  made  a  bet  to  carry 
EMILY  off  to  his  summer  place  on  the 
Sound,  and  keep  her  there  for  two  weeks. 

Hal's  tutor  in  the  ways  of  the  fast  world, 
a  middle-aged  man  who  cultivates  Eng- 
lish whiskers  and  English  tailors;  but 
never  pays  cash  for  anything. 


THE  CHARACTER  CAST  77 

OLD  SAMMY  a  blunt  Yankee  farmer,  overseer  of  Hal's 

BOTHAM  place  in  the  country;  he  has  a  shrewd 

face  like  a  fox  terrier  and  knows  every- 
thing that  he  does  not  appear  to  see. 
He  pities  the  victims  of  his  sporting 
master  and  often  does  one  of  them  a 
good  turn. 

HENRY  COOK  a  divinity  student,  grave  and  polite, 
shrinking  from  women  in  general,  al- 
though knowing  that  it  is  part  of  his 
professional  duty  to  know  them.  He 
falls  in  love  with  Lucy. 

MORRIS  EPPS  a  retired  banker,  father  of  EMILY  and 
Lucy.  He  is  a  stern,  suspicious  old  man, 
who  has  held  tight  rein  over  his  girls 
and  driven  them  into  deceitful  ways. 
His  little  gray  eyes  gleam  with  wrath 
when  he  is  angry  and  he  is  quick  to  lift 
his  cane  against  beggar  children.  Since 
the  death  of  his  wife,  who  died  of  a 
broken  heart,  he  has  become  an  un- 
bearable man  in  his  home,  and  a  terror 
to  his  neighbors  and  dependents. 

A  good  way  to  learn  how  to  make  character 
casts  is  to  take  characters  from  novels,  and  describe 
them  in  your  own  words.  For  instance,  the  follow- 
ing one  is  made  from  the  novel,  "The  Wife  Out  of 
Egypt,"  by  Norma  Lorimer: 


78 


SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 


HADASSAH 
LEKEJIAN 


MICHAEL 
IRETON 


GIRGIS 
BOUTROS 


VERNON 
THORPE 


NANCY 
THORPE 


NICHOLAS 
LEKEJIAN,  JR. 

NICHOLAS 
LEKEJIAN 


CHARACTER  CAST 

the  beautiful  daughter  of  an  Irish  mother 
and  a  Syrian  father;  she  has  been  edu- 
cated in  England  where  she  was  called 
STELLA  ADAIK,  her  mother's  maiden 
name. 

whose  great  passion  for  Stella  sweeps 
down  the  barrier  of  race  which  separates 
them  and  gives  him  understanding  and 
intellectual  sympathy. 

Stella's  cousin  on  her  father's  side;  a 
wealthy  cotton  farmer  and  leader  of  the 
Copts.  He  has  been  entrapped  into  a 
Pan-Islamic  movement  owing  to  his 
hatred  of  the  English. 

a  British  army  officer;  scion  of  an  old 
Norfolk  family  —  hi  love  with  Stella, 
but  having  no  sympathy  or  under- 
standing of  her  father's  people. 

his  sister,  a  sweet,  frank  English  girl; 
Stella's  staunch  friend  and  former 
schoolmate.  Falls  in  love  with  Stella's 
brother  Nicholas. 

Stella's  brother,  a  composer  of  music, 
educated  abroad;  the  finest  example  of  a 
Syrian  gentleman. 

Stella's  father,  a  wealthy  and  powerful 
Syrian  who  admires  the  English  in  spite 
of  the  ostracism  which  his  race  suffers  in 
Cairo. 


THE  CHARACTER  CAST  79 

HELEN  Stella's  mother,  an  Irish  woman  who  has 

LEKEJIAN  silently  borne  the  ostracism  imposed  on 

her  by  her  own  people  because  she  mar- 
ried the  man  she  loved. 

MISS  MAC  a  sympathetic  and  lovely  woman,  prin- 

NAUGHTON  cipal  of  a  select  girls'  school  in  London. 

She  has  reared  Stella  from  the  age  of 

seven. 

Natives,  society  people,  policemen,  Nationalists 
Bedouin  farmers 

Keep  the  number  of  your  chief  characters  down 
to  five.  As  a  rule  you  should  have  either  a  male  or 
female  lead.  If  your  play  is  big  enough  you  may 
have  an  all  star  cast.  But  for  the  ordinary  simple 
play  it  is  better  to  have  as  few  characters  as  possi- 
ble. Some  successful  little  comedies  have  contained 
only  three  characters  and  a  super  or  two.  But  for 
the  usual  comedy  drama  you  will  have  to  count 
about  five  strong  characters.  If  your  chief  role 
falls  to  a  man,  the  female  character  which  plays  up 
to  him,  be  it  sweetheart,  wife,  or  mother,  must  be 
brought  out  with  almost  as  much  care  as  you  spend 
on  the  leading  r6le.  However,  the  leading  role  is 
the  star,  and  all  the  other  characters  must  move 
around  him  or  her. 

The  twin  brother  and  twin  sister  plot  led  to  the 
device  of  the  dual  role  where  one  actor  is  photo- 


80  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

graphed  in  two  parts.  So  much  progress  has  been 
made  in  the  photography  of  the  dual  role  drama 
that  the  two  characters  may  now  even  come  close 
together  and  embrace  one  another.  The  weird  feel- 
ing that  is  produced  in  the  audience  comes  from 
the  consciousness  that  whereas  they  see  two  per- 
sons there  is  but  one,  and  while  they  appreciate  the 
skilful  photography  the  impression  that  is  left  is 
not  altogether  a  pleasant  one.  - 

In  a  wonderful  photoplay  called  "The  River's 
End,"  the  hero  and  another  man  are  played  by  the 
same  person,  but  the  second  man  dies,  and  then 
the  hero  assumes  his  identity  and  carries  on  the 
story.  The  resemblance  between  the  two  charac- 
ters is  so  strong  that  the  plot  turns  upon  it  and  is 
exceedingly  well  sustained. 

Where  there  are  lapses  of  time  and  the  first  part 
of  the  play  deals  with  the  hero  and  heroine  in  child 
parts,  the  nicest  judgment  is  necessary  in  order  to 
show  the  child  as  " father  to  the  man"  —  that  is,  so 
related  to  the  mature  nature  that  whatever  trait  is 
to  be  emphasized  later  on  sparkles  forth  in  the 
young  character.  In  a  two  part  novel  published 
some  little  time  ago,  this  skill  is  a  marked  feature 
of  the  book;  the  incidents  of  the  Prologue  harmo- 
nizing very  finely  with  the  development  of  the  big- 
ger plot.  In  this  connection  I  suggest  that  if  pos- 


THE  CHARACTER  CAST  81 

sible  it  is  well  not  to  divide  your  story  into  such 
parts;  lapses  of  time  necessitate  two  sets  of  actors, 
and  it  is  rather  awkward  to  carry  out  in  other  re- 
spects. Prologues  are  apt  to  be  disturbing  to  the 
smooth  unfolding  of  the  story  unless  handled  with 
remarkable  skill. 


CHAPTER  VIE 
LOCALE  AND  ATMOSPHERE 

A  STOUT  is  something  that  usually  grows  in  the 
brain  of  a  writer,  developing  today  a  bud,  to- 
morrow another  branch,  finally  blossoming  into 
the  perfect  flower  of  the  finished  product.  It  sel- 
dom springs  forth  fully  grown,  with  all  its  parts 
complete.  In  a  case  like  this  the  author  has  only 
to  bow  meekly  before  his  inspiration  and  put  him- 
self into  the  place  of  the  acting  secretary  for  a  com- 
petent power.  Then  the  characters,  the  plot,  the 
situations,  and  the  scenes  will  not  be  matters  for 
him  to  decide,  and  everything  will  fit  into  its 
proper  place  without  occasioning  him  any  per- 
plexities. But  this  happens  so  rarely  that  it  may 
be  left  out  of  count. 

Almost  every  author  has  to  wrestle  with  every 
different  part  of  his  work;  to  stop  and  ask  questions 
as  to  whether  this  incident  is  in  tune  with  the  rest, 
whether  he  has  not  made  some  egregious  mistake 
in  fixing  certain  points  which  he  at  first  confidently 
established.  Many  doubts  will  intrude  themselves, 
and  it  is  only  when  the  final  page  is  written  and  the 


LOCALE  AND  ATMOSPHERE  83 

story  sent  forth  from  his  hands  that  his  anxious 
criticism  ends  and  he  believes  that  it  is  out  of  his 
power  to  alter  or  undo. 

But  the  better  his  outline,  the  more  thorough 
his  plan,  the  less  trouble  he  will  have.  It  is  a  wise 
economy  of  time  and  strength  to  make  a  complete 
plan  of  every  situation,  each  character,  and  every 
locale  that  are  to  be  dealt  with  in  the  story.  Then 
all  parts  will  fall  into  harmony  and  no  contradic- 
tions occur.  Your  locales,  in  the  part  of  the  busi- 
ness connected  with  scenery  and  properties,  are 
the  affair  of  the  director,  who  will  take  entire  charge 
of  arranging  the  details  that  make  up  the  picture 
showing  the  places  where  your  characters  act  out 
their  history.  He  will  dictate  each  material  cir- 
cumstance; order,  now,  a  particular  sort  of  fur- 
nishing for  a  house  or  court  or  inn,  and  again  choose 
the  proper  occasion  for  an  outdoor  scene.  He  knows 
much  better  than  you  exactly  what  is  right,  and 
will  pay  no  attention  to  any  suggestions  you  make 
in  a  matter  where  it  is  his  province  to  command. 
When  your  story  has  passed  out  of  your  charge, 
and  he  takes  it,  then  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom  for 
you  not  to  interfere.  But  unless  you  wish  to  have 
your  story  very  much  altered  in  its  picturization 
from  your  original  idea,  you  would  better  make 
such  a  clear  statement  of  your  plot,  including 


84  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

explanations  of  the  kind  of  country  where  your 
action  takes  place  and  the  general  locality. 

If  you  have  written  a  story  about  a  land  of  snow 
and  ice,  do  not  omit  to  mention  that;  if  you  have 
placed  it  in  the  tropics,  let  that  be  seen  immedi- 
ately. So,  also,  if  hills  and  rivers  must  be  brought 
in;  or  desert  land;  or  if  unusual  properties,  such 
as  ships,  trains,  or  waterfalls,  are  required.  Give 
your  locale,  just  as  you  give  a  suggestion  of  your 
period,  for  such  distinct  mention  saves  the  time 
of  the  director  and  he  will  be  glad  to  know  at  once 
what  he  has  to  undertake. 

But  the  importance  of  fixing  your  locale  is  not 
to  be  minimized  when  you  are  writing  your  story. 
Then  you  should  try  to  keep  your  mind  fixed 
firmly  on  each  particular  place  you  take  your 
characters  into,  and  make  a  strong  picture  for 
yourself  of  every  striking  situation.  No  pains 
must  be  spared,  no  work  shirked  that  will  enable 
you  to  realize  all  the  time  exactly  what  surround- 
ings are  natural  and  inevitable  to  the  incident  you 
are  writing  up.  Every  time  you  change  from  a 
room  to  an  outdoor  scene,  —  from  a  schoolroom 
to  a  street,  say,  —  you  should  pause  and  mentally 
draw  a  sketch  of  the  place  you  are  thinking  of;  get 
the  idea  clear;  then  you  will  invent  the  right  action, 
then  there  will  be  no  awkward  discrepancy  between 


LOCALE  AND  ATMOSPHERE  83 

what  you  want  to  impress  upon  your  audience  and 
what  you  actually  do  convey.  But  if  you  slide  over 
this  part  of  your  work  and  hurriedly  stumble  on 
with  your  action,  in  all  probability  you  will  be 
astonished  some  day,  when  you  see  your  picture 
on  the  screen,  to  find  that  the  director  worked  out 
an  entirely  different  conception  for  himself  from 
the  one  you  fancied  you  had  explained.  It  is  a 
peculiar  thing  that  the  thing  a  writer  neglects,  be- 
cause he  finds  it  a  little  difficult  to  clarify  to  him- 
self, becomes  the  weak  point  in  his  story  and  glar- 
ingly obtrudes  its  weakness  at  the  most  unexpected 
moment.  If  when  you  write  your  story  you  are 
uncertain  whether  Jane  should  be  in  the  garden 
or  in  the  conservatory  when  Edgar  proposes,  and 
leave  it  to  chance,  you  will  not  only  be  likely  to  be 
deeply  chagrined,  when  it  is  too  late  to  alter  it, 
to  find  that  her  being  in  the  garden  has  thrown 
everything  out  of  order;  that  she  was  meant  by  fate 
to  be  located  in  the  conservatory,  so  that  the 
jealous  man  spying  upon  her  could  be  concealed  be- 
hind the  big  potted  palm;  but  also  you  will  realize 
that  if  you  had  definitely  arranged  her  location 
in  the  first  place,  you  might  have  added  some  very 
strong  situations  which  are  now  forever  doomed  to 
be  omitted  from  your  plot. 

Write  out,  then,  at  the  very  beginning  of  your 


86  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

story,  a  description  of  the 'part  of  the  country 
where  your  action  takes  place.  This  is  for  yourself. 
You  can  afterwards  reduce  the  description  to  a 
brief  five  or  six  word  suggestion,  for  the  enlight- 
enment of  the  scenario  editor.  The  more  you  elab- 
orate your  first  draft,  the  more  thorough  you  make 
your  plan,  the  easier  it  will  be  for  you  when  you 
come  to  the  work  of  condensing  the  long  story  into 
the  shape  it  must  ultimately  take  in  your  synopsis. 
Your  locale  should  ever  be  definite  and  har- 
monize with  both  your  plot  and  your  characters. 
Some  authors  choose  their  characters  and  write 
the  scenery  around  them;  others  are  inspired  with 
certain  stories  through  the  impression  made  by 
scenery.  This  is  all  a  matter  of  habit  or  of  tempera- 
ment. Perhaps  yours  will  compel  you  to  write  in  a 
certain  manner;  and  then  you  must  proceed  as  you 
are  led.  But  there  will  be  one  time  when  you  are 
free  to  choose  your  place  and  your  story  habitat. 
Make  the  choice  deliberately,  and  keep  to  your 
choice.  It  is  fatal  to  dally  and  alter  radical  points 
after  you  have  begun.  If  you  have  resolved  to 
write  a  story  about  the  great  Northwest,  where 
huge  mountains  rear  toward  the  sky  line,  and  snow 
forms  deep  drifts  above  buried  farmhouses  —  then 
get  your  imagination  actively  to  work,  construct- 
ing situations  where  your  characters  act  heroic 


LOCALE  AND  ATMOSPHERE  87 

parts,  and  do  not  wander  off  into  conventional 
scenes,  with  Maria  and  Harold  flirting  as  though 
they  were  in  a  city  drawing-room.  They  would  n't 
do  that.  What  is  quite  the  expected  thing  in  society 
would  be  out  of  place  in  the  big  out  of  doors.  Get 
into  your  atmosphere;  think  yourself  into  their 
places;  and  then  your  sympathies  will  lead  you 
aright. 

When  you  plan  a  story  about  old  Kentucky, 
study  the  local  geography  of  that  region  and  read 
up  the  history  of  the  State,  so  that  you  will  make 
no  absurd  mistake  about  your  old-fashioned  char- 
acters. And  if  Virginia  is  your  locale,  give  your 
earnest  attention  to  Virginia  and  do  not  confuse  it 
with  Delaware;  putting  in  something  about  local 
customs  which  will  astonish  a  stray  witness  of  your 
scenario  who  happens  to  come  from  that  State. 

It  is  the  habit  of  singing  teachers  to  "place"  the 
voice  of  their  pupils,  so  that  they  may  train  their 
voices  in  the  direction  nature  suggests.  A  scenario 
writer  must  also  try  to  "place"  his  story  so  that  it 
may  go  on  smoothly  without  any  breaks  or  dis- 
crepancies. Fix  your  locale  once  and  for  all;  and 
then  write  up  all  the  details  that  are  in  your  plot 
to  harmonize  with  that  environment. 

It  is  becoming  more  and  more  the  custom  to 
present  to  an  audience  the  locale  of  the  story  before 


88  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

any  characters  are  introduced.  Usually  the  first 
picture  that  is  shown  strikes  the  note  of  the  story. 
When  the  audience  see  unrolling  before  them  a 
vision  of  wild  mountains,  gorges,  and  frowning 
rocks,  they  know  that  they  are  to  be  taken  into 
,  scenes  of  the  Northwest  and  the  upland,  uncivilized 
country.  Unconsciously  their  minds  attune  them- 
selves to  the  atmosphere  thus  suggested.  Or,  if  the 
story  has  to  do  with  some  little  local  spot,  they  will 
perceive  a  country  store,  wagons  drawn  up  in  front 
of  it,  loungers  gathered  around,  and  a  general  in- 
dication of  a  small  trafficking  routine.  Again  the 
screen  flashes  forth  a  palatial  mansion,  the  steps 
guarded  by  stone  lions,  the  walks  winding  away 
into  the  distance  through  a  stately  park.  Now  they 
know  they  are  going  to  be  brought  among  the 
aristocracy  and  see  the  lords  and  ladies  of  the  land. 
Here  is  the  setting  for  a  society  play.  An  anticipa- 
tion is  stirred  in  them  so  that  the  announcement  of 
the  first  character  —  a  Lady  Dedlock  let  us  say  — 
joins  itself  on  agreeably  to  the  idea  that  has  been 
aroused  in  them.  Many  of  the  most  popular  screen 
dramas  have  been  indebted  largely  to  their  power- 
ful depiction  of  atmosphere.  Rex  Beach  created  a 
field  for  himself  by  his  splendid  stories  of  Alaska. 
Zane  Grey's  vivid  and  accurate  picturization  of  the 
desert  country  has  given  his  stories  peculiar  vogue. 


LOCALE  AND  ATMOSPHERE  89 

People  like  nothing  better  than  to  be  taken  on 
a  wonderful  voyage  in  imagination.  The  stay  at 
homes  particularly  delight  in  being  whirled  off  on  a 
magic  carpet  into  strange  lands.  The  more  even 
and  prosaic  their  everyday  existence,  the  more  they 
long  for  the  beautiful.  Even  though  your  story 
should  deal  with  everyday  life,  you  can  put  a  touch 
of  beauty  here  and  there  into  your  locale.  Not  every 
one  can  appreciate  a  great  painting,  but  even  the 
untutored  little  newsboy  will  pause  a  moment 
to  gape  at  a  window  where  some  beautiful  color 
scheme  is  displayed,  even  though  it  be  in  the 
drapery  of  dry  goods. 

Now  you  are  the  artist  and  your  locale  is  your 
color  scheme.  Your  aim  is  to  attract  the  attention 
of  your  audience  and  prepare  their  minds  for  what 
is  coming.  Your  locale  must  agree  with  the  general 
tone  of  your  story.  It  is  to  the  story  what  back- 
ground is  to  the  painted  picture.  A  good  artist 
spends  enormous  effort  upon  making  this  back- 
ground. As  he  mixes  his  umbers  and  sepias  and 
chromes  he  has  it  constantly  before  his  fancy  to 
enhance  the  beauty  of  the  prominent  features  of 
his  picture.  A  single  discordant  object  would  spoil 
everything.  Grouping  is  the  director's  affair,  and 
if  your  luck  is  to  have  a  perfect  director  he  will 
correct  any  mistake  you  make.  But  you  cannot 


90  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

afford  to  take  chances,  for  he  may  happen  to  be 
less  than  perfect.  A  scenario  writer  should  do 
every  part  of  his  work  as  thoroughly  as  if  he  ex- 
pected no  aid  or  alteration  from  any  source.  And 
if  your  heart  is  in  it,  you  will  not  be  content  with 
>  anything  short  of  perfection. 

Even  if  all  the  thought  and  care  you  spend  upon 
creating  the  right  atmosphere  for  your  story  seem 
to  have  been  superfluous,  since  the  screen  effects 
are  different  from  your  ideals,  your  labor  is  worth 
while.  It  has  helped  to  make  a  better  artist  of  you. 
Perhaps  it  will  be  apparent  in  your  next  effort. 
Nothing  is  truer  than  that  in  the  long  run  good 
work  always  tells. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  COMMERCIAL  SIDE 

IT  has  always  been  recognized  more  or  less  that 
there  is  a  seamy  side  to  literature,  for  authors  have 
not  refrained  from  uttering  bitter  complaints  about 
their  hard  lots  and  taking  the  public  into  their  con- 
fidence about  their  tribulations.  James  Payn  wrote 
a  most  amusing  account  of  his  own  and  his  friends' 
troubles  in  an  article  which  appeared  in  an  English 
magazine  and  was  entitled  "The  Seamy  Side  of 
Letters."  In  the  days  of  the  renowned  Doctor 
Johnson  writers  apparently  had  more  to  complain 
of  than  they  have  at  present.  Undoubtedly  things 
have  been  growing  better  for  writers,  but  there  has 
been  great  exaggeration  about  the  fortunes  made 
through  writing  books.  Good  authorities  tell  us 
that  very  few  writers  reap  more  than  a  bare  living 
from  the  products  of  their  pens. 

Perhaps  a  secret  consciousness  of  this  has  been 
the  stimulus  that  has  sent  writers  eagerly  and 
hopefully  toward  the  occupation  of  writing  for  the 
screen.  Remarkably  optimistic  rumors  creep  out 
now  and  then  concerning  this  "get  rich  quick" 
method  of  grasping  fortunes.  Writers  who  have 


92  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

produced  a  fairly  good  novel  that  has  had,  say,  in 
its  first  two  years  a  sale  of  four  thousand  copies 
and  has  brought  them  in  royalties  amounting  to 
six  hundred  dollars,  wildly  fancy  that  they  can  sell 
that  same  novel  to  a  motion  picture  company  for 
fifty  thousand.  For  a  novelette  that  has  appeared 
in  a  magazine  they  expect  many  times  the  amount 
paid  for  it  as  a  literary  performance. 

I  hate  to  shatter  a  brilliant  bubble,  but  better 
the  truth  at  first  than  a  disappointment  in  the  end. 
Motion  picture  companies  are  eager  —  yes,  more 
than  eager  —  for  good  material.  So  for  that  matter 
are  book  publishers  and  magazine  editors.  For  an 
extraordinary  "find"  all  these  dealers  in  brain 
products  are  willing  to  pay  the  highest  prices  that 
are  compatible  with  their  own  interests.  But  the 
business  of  motion  pictures  is  not  run  in  the  realm 
of  fairy  land;  it  is  a  practical  business  subject  to 
the  rules  and  regulations  of  other  kinds  of  com- 
merce. Some  of  the  talkers  who  enjoy  deluding 
people  are  wont  to  make  such  a  statement  as  this : 
"Why,  such  and  such  a  company  is  spending  half 
a  million  dollars  on  the  production  of  a  story! 
Compared  with  that  output  what  is  fifty  thousand 
dollars  for  the  author?"  Now,  when  authors  sell  a 
novel  to  a  motion  picture  company  on  a  royalty 
basis  it  would  seem  fair  for  them  to  receive  fifty 


THE  COMMERCIAL  SIDE  93 

per  cent  of  the  profits.  But  pray  consider  that  a 
novel  is  merely  raw  material  which  has  to  be 
worked  up  by  many  different  processes.  First, 
there  is  the  continuity  writer  who  spends  at  least 
six  weeks  in  making  a  working  scenario  from  the 
book.  Please  note  that  the  modern  working  sce- 
nario is  a  complicated  thing.  It  sometimes  amounts 
to  the  bulk  of  a  printed  volume  and  omits  no 
smallest  detail  necessary  for  the  information  of  the 
director.  It  is  a  fortunate  thing  for  the  author  that 
he  is  not  required  to  do  this  work,  for  it  is  a  pro- 
fession in  itself  and  few  authors  have  the  natural 
ability  or  training  to  cope  with  it.  Now  it  comes  to 
the  hands  of  the  director  who  may  either  use  it 
as  it  is  or  change  it.  Some  companies  give  their 
directors  wide  liberty  in  this  respect,  while  others 
oblige  them  to  keep  to  the  letter  of  the  script.  The 
privilege  of  a  director  to  make  alterations  in  a 
story  depends  upon  his  personal  reputation  and 
the  standing  he  has  gained  through  his  good  work. 
Of  course,  every  one  realizes  how  much  the  success 
of  the  story  depends  upon  the  stars.  After  the 
scenes  have  been  "shot/'  the  film  is  ready  to  pass 
into  the  hands  of  the  cutting  editor  who  assem- 
bles the  picture.  He  can  make  or  mar,  as  his  func- 
tion is  to  cut  out  all  unnecessary  pictures  and  join 
the  story  together  in  a  logical  way  so  that  it  will 


94  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

run  smoothly.  After  the  cutting  editor  comes  the 
title  man,  whose  business  it  is  to  furnish  the  sub- 
titles for  the  story.  When  you  consider  all  the 
different  people  who  handle  the  material  you  will 
realize  how  much  work  has  to  be  put  on  your  novel 
in  order  to  make  it  into  a  photoplay,  and  that  fifty 
per  cent  of  the  profits  is  too  great  a  proportion  for 
you  to  receive.  Five  per  cent  would  be  nearer  jus- 
tice. Now,  a  successful  picture  rarely  makes  more 
than  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  the  pro- 
ducer, and  if  your  share  were  five  per  cent  you 
would  receive  five  thousand  dollars.  So  you  can 
easily  see  that  when  you  sell  a  novel  outright  for 
five  thousand  dollars  you  are  making  an  exceed- 
ingly good  bargain. 

We  have  been  speaking  of  a  very  successful  pic- 
ture, but  most  pictures  that  are  put  on  have  only 
fair  success.  So  you  can  compute  for  yourself  about 
what  a  fair  price  is  for  the  average  novel. 

It  usually  takes  an  author  about  a  year  to  write 
a  novel.  The  author  who  puts  out  more  than  one 
novel  a  year  is  phenomenal.  Many  famous  authors 
deliberately  give  two  years  to  the  creation  of  a 
single  novel.  Taking  into  consideration  the  amount 
of  time  and  thought  spent  upon  the  creation  of  a 
single  book,  the  author  has  a  perfect  right  to  reap 
as  much  advantage  from  it  as  possible.  He  may,  if 


THE  COMMERCIAL  SIDE  95 

he  is  lucky,  sell  the  serial  rights,  the  book  rights, 
the  dramatic  rights,  and  finally  the  screen  rights. 
It  is  unreasonable  to  expect  the  last  transaction  to 
bring  in  an  amount  that  is  greatly  out  of  propor- 
tion to  the  rest.  The  author  of  a  popular  book  re- 
ceives more  for  the  moving  picture  rights  of  it  than 
the  unknown  writer  of  an  original  scenario  because 
of  the  advertising  value  of  a  successful  published 
work.  But  seventy-five  per  cent  of  the  novels  that 
are  written  are  unavailable  for  screen  use.  Special 
writers  for  the  screen  have  a  great  advantage.  In 
the  first  place,  it  takes  far  less  time  to  write  a  good 
story  in  synopsis  form  than  it  does  to  work  it  out 
into  a  full-blown  novel.  A  good  scenario  may  be 
written  in  six  weeks;  with  practice  and  skill  in  half 
the  time.  Now,  suppose  if  for  from  three  to  six 
weeks*  work,  and  not  the  hardest  work,  but  pleas- 
ant, delightful  effort,  you  receive  from  five  hun- 
dred to  three  thousand  dollars,  is  not  this  very  well 
worth  while? 

Sensational  rumors  to  the  contrary,  good  short 
story  writers  are  well  pleased  to  receive  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars  for  a  magazine  story  on  which 
they  have  spent  a  month.  Mr.  Julian  Hawthorne, 
who  certainly  is  an  authority  on  this  point,  re- 
cently said  that  few  of  the  most  successful  writers 
of  short  stories  are  able  to  gain  an  income  of  more 


96  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

than  five  thousand  a  year.  But  this  is  far  above 
the  average.  There  is  no  doubt  that  the  same 
amount  of  ability  possessed  by  a  man  who  devotes 
himself  to  literature  used  in  the  professions  of  law, 
medicine,  or  civil  engineering,  might  obtain  for  him 
greater  returns  in  money,  but  the  writer  who  has 
any  love  for  his  art  will  discount  this  for  the  pleas- 
ure he  gets  from  writing.  When  things  have  gone  a 
little  awry  one  may  recall  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's 
saying  —  "No  other  labor  gives  a  man  his  daily 
bread  upon  such  joyful  terms." 

The  practical  side  of  marketing  your  scenario  is 
something  to  which  you  must  bring  all  your  native 
wit  and  shrewdness.  A  mart  is  a  mart  be  it  for  dry 
goods  or  brain  stuff ,  and  the  ignoramus  who  changes 
his  treasure  for  a  case  of  shagreen  spectacles  de- 
serves to  suffer  for  his  stupidity.  Beyond  question 
there  is  chicanery  in  the  motion  picture  business. 
On  the  western  coast  some  little  shyster  company 
starts  up  each  week,  puts  out  a  flaunting  sign, 
gathers  up  bushels  of  script,  and  disappears.  Other 
companies,  while  advertising  that  they  will  pay 
good  prices  for  stories,  have  stuff  written  up  in 
their  own  studios  from  ideas  gratuitously  ob- 
tained. But  are  there  not  tricksters  in  every  trade? 
Are  there  not  merchants  who  deceive,  quack  doc- 
tors and  land  agents  who  will  fleece  you  out  of  your 


THE  COMMERCIAL  SIDE  97 

last  dollar?  Taken  as  a  whole  motion  picture  com- 
panies are  as  a  rule  honest  and  reliable.  It  is  not 
their  habit  to  steal  authors'  ideas  and  note  them 
down  in  a  great  blue  book,  although  this  has  been 
alleged  of  them.  Unhappily  there  is  no  patent  on 
ideas,  and  how  could  there  be,  since  owing  to  some 
peculiar  concurrence  of  thought  waves  the  same 
idea  nearly  always  occurs  to  several  people  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  world  at  the  same  time?  The 
inspiration  that  you  fondly  believe  to  be  wholly 
your  own  may  be  simultaneously  developing  in  the 
brain  of  some  one  way  out  in  India  or  Japan.  The 
lesson  to  be  deduced  from  this  is  — try  to  utilize 
your  ideas  quickly,  write  your  story  while  you  feel 
the  heat  and  interest  of  it  burning  in  your  mind. 
Revise  it  carefully,  but  don't  do  as  saintly,  unprac- 
tical Bronson  Alcott  advised  writers  to  do,  "Lay  it 
in  your  desk  for  twenty  years  before  you  offer  it  to 
a  publisher."  On  the  contrary,  as  soon  as  your  story 
is  done,  neatly  typed,  paged,  fastened  together  with 
clamps,  and  protected  in  a  cover  of  stout  blue  or 
brown  paper,  hurry  it  off  to  your  chosen  motion 
picture  company.  But  be  wise  and  wary  about  the 
choice  of  that  company,  for  in  all  probability  if 
your  script  comes  back  you  will  be  obliged,  if  not 
to  completely  recopy  it,  to  spend  considerable  time 
on  freshening  it  up. 


98  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

The  marketing  of  a  script  involves,  first,  har- 
monizing it  with  the  preferences  of  a  company. 
Every  company  has  its  own  peculiar  tastes  and 
policy.  It  aims  toward  variety;  nevertheless  it  is 
apt  to  run  along  the  same  groove,  being  biased  by 
the  wishes  of  the  stars  who  naturally  are  most  suc- 
cessful in  certain  roles.  In  order  to  understand  the 
needs  of  the  company  at  the  time  you  are  offering 
your  story,  you  should  know  what  stars  that  com- 
pany is  featuring.  If  a  certain  company  has  only 
a  man  lead  it  is  useless  to  offer  your  girl  heroine 
story.  Study  your  trade  journals  and  select  as  your 
market  the  company  having  a  star  who  seems  to 
correspond  in  type  with  your  heroine.  It  is  im- 
portant to  keep  posted  about  the  stories  companies 
are  running  or  are  about  to  produce,  as  they  seldom 
care  to  produce  several  of  the  same  kind  of  stories 
in  succession.  If  they  have  put  on  several  Wild- 
West  stories  they  want  to  go  widely  apart  from 
that  in  their  next  production.  Hardened  veterans 
in  the  field  of  literature  will  tell  you  that  it  does  not 
make  any  difference  how  many  times  you  send  out 
a  story.  Keep  writing  them,  keep  sending  them, 
and  forget  a  story  as  soon  as  it  leaves  your  hands. 
But  this  cold,  cynical  advice  will  not  appeal  to  the 
young  author.  There  is  something  about  the  first 
freshness  of  a  story  that  is  like  nothing  else  on  land 


THE  COMMERCIAL  SIDE  99 

or  sea.  It  may  have  to  make  twenty  lonely  voy- 
ages before  it  finds  harbor,  but  happy  will  it  be  for 
you  if  it  reaches  port  the  first  trip.  So  spend  all  the 
time  that  is  needed  and  give  all  the  pains  possible 
to  the  study  of  the  motion  picture  market,  for 
selling  is  a  matter  of  fitting  and  it  will  be  largely 
your  own  fault  if  you  make  a  misfit. 

Some  small  details,  such  as  the  preparation  of 
your  manuscript,  are  not  unimportant.  Of  all 
things  have  it  clean  and  legible,  with  your  address 
on  the  upper  left-hand  corner.  Your  manuscript 
will  consist  of  three  parts.  After  the  title-page 
comes  the  brief  synopsis  of  from  two  hundred  and 
fifty  words  to  twelve  hundred  words;  next  your 
character  cast;  third,  the  scenario  or  working 
synopsis,  which  is  really  a  condensed  novel  in  five 
thousand  words.  The  fourth  part  of  the  script, 
the  continuity,  is  totally  unnecessary  and  a  waste 
of  time.  The  continuity  will  be  written  in  the 
studio  and  if  you  send  one  it  will  probably  not  be 
used.  But  it  is  a  valuable  thing  for  you  to  study 
continuity  writing,  because  it  will  help  you  to  write 
your  working  synopsis  in  logical  sequence  and 
develop  your  power  of  visualization. 

It  may  seem  unnecessary  to  advise  writers  of 
photoplays  to  go  often  to  see  moving  pictures. 
Perhaps  you  have  been  a  "movie  fan/'  but  you 


100  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

have  gone  for  enjoyment,  not  for  profit.  You  will 
find  your  point  of  view  entirely  different  now  that 
you  go  to  study  the  story.  You  should  analyze 
from  first  to  last,  take  particular  note  of  every  word 
that  flashes  on  the  screen,  the  producing  company, 
the  director,  the  staff  writer  as  well  as  the  names  of 
the  stars.  Of  course,  you  will  observe  whether  it  is 
a  novel  or  an  original  scenario.  You  must  cultivate 
the  habit  of  memorizing  all  the  facts  as  well  as  the 
points  of  the  plot.  After  some  practice  you  will  un- 
failingly notice  the  moment  of  the  crisis  and  possi- 
bly may  divine  the  plot  from  that.  Anyway,  what- 
ever you  forget,  go  out  with  the  climax  firmly  fixed 
in  your  mind.  When  you  reach  home  jot  down  in 
your  notebook  a  brief  outline  of  the  story  you  have 
seen  and  do  not  forget  to  add  the  name  of  the 
producing  company  and  the  stars  who  appeared  in 
it.  If  you  persevere  in  this  for  a  year  you  will  have 
an  excellent  fund  of  material  to  draw  on  that  will 
help  you  greatly  in  placing  your  story. 


CHAPTER  X 
TITLES  AND  SCREEN  TERMS 

NEARLY  everybody  fancies,  until  he  tries  it,  that 
he  has  a  knack  for  making  good  titles;  just  as  most 
people  believe  that  they  can  write  striking  adver- 
tisements. To  take  a  piece  of  paper  and  write 
down  at  haphazard  a  dozen  or  so  series  of  words 
thrown  together,  with  nouns  standing  out  like  fine 
headlights  on  a  shabby  car,  is  easy  enough,  but 
if  you  select  from  this  medley  one  title  and  criticise 
it,  you  will  probably  find  it  to  be  a  thing  of  no  sub- 
stance, containing  neither  inspiration  for  yourself 
nor  charm  for  other  people.  A  title  should  have 
both  these  things.  From  your  own  point  of  view 
the  title  suggests  the  plot.  Some  authors  cannot 
write  until  they  have  secured  an  appropriate  name 
as  their  starting-point.  But  occasionally  a  title 
changes  under  the  development  of  the  story  as 
some  illuminating  idea  grows  out  of  a  new  situa- 
tion. 

A  title  is  more  than  a  name.  It  is  a  magnet  and 
ought  to  be  a  powerful  enough  one  to  exercise  a 
very  wide  attraction.  The  title  of  your  story 
should  arouse  curiosity,  awaken  interest,  and  in 


102         • '  SdEtfARSO''  WRITING  TODAY 

some  subtle  way  relate  itself  to  the  popular  ideal  of 
the  hour.  What  appeal,  for  instance,  would  "The 
Mysteries  of  Udolpho"  have  for  the  modern 
world?  "The  Wounded  Dove"  would  provoke 
ridicule  in  this  age,  just  as  "The  Ridin'  Kid" 
.  would  have  been  shuddered  over  by  the  ultra- 
refined  audience  of  the  Victorian  period.  If  you 
are  writing  in  harmony  with  your  age  and  your 
story  is  in  touch  with  the  times,  your  title  will 
naturally  be  attractive  to  an  up-to-date  audience. 
James  Irving,  one  of  the  best  authorities  on  this 
subject,  says:  "Of  late  writers  have  begun  to  give 
title  its  proper  share  of  attention.  They  have  come 
to  realize  that  there  are  three  important  elements 
in  successful  photoplay  writing.  In  order  of  im- 
portance these  are  plot,  synopsis,  and  title.  .  .  . 
The  main  purpose  of  the  title  is  to  advertise  your 
play  to  the  public.  .  .  .  But  before  your  play  can 
appeal  to  the  public  it  must  appeal  to  some  editor. 
It  is  essential,  therefore,  that  the  title  appeal  to  the 
editor.  .  .  .  Do  not  make  the  mistake  of  selecting 
a  high-sounding  or  pretty  title.  ...  If  you  will 
select  a  title  that  piques  curiosity  you  will  find  that 
your  work  will  be  given  an  instantaneous  chance  to 
prove  itself  worth  while.  If  you  stop  to  think  you 
will  find  this  is  true.  .  .  .  Compare  the  lack  of 
interest  in  such  titles  as  'The  Village  Convict/  a 


TITLES  AND  SCREEN  TERMS         103 

story  by  C.  H.  White,  or  'The  Shot/  by  Pushkin, 
with  such  suggestive  and  appealing  titles  as  'The 
Upper  Berth/  by  Crawford,  or  the  'Riders  of  the 
Purple  Sage/  a  Fox  production,  or  'Hearts  of  the 

World/  by  Mr.  Griffith Try  to  make  your 

title  from  three  to  five  words  in  length.  It  is  apt  to 
be  clumsy  and  awkward  if  it  is  longer.  Do  not, 
however,  go  to  the  extreme  and  make  your  title  so 
short  that  it  is  vague  and  meaningless.  . .  .  Don't 
reveal  your  plot  in  your  title." 

What  Sam  Weller  said  of  letter  writing  applies 
to  title,  "When  she  reads  it  she'll  wish  there  was 
more  and  that's  the  great  art  o'  letter  writinV 
The  object  of  your  title  is  not  so  much  to  classify 
the  story  as  to  lure  the  casual  observer  to  penetrate 
deeper  into  the  mystery  it  suggests.  If  you  can 
touch  upon  some  partly  concealed  vital  interest, 
you  will  have  made  your  point.  Better  to  deal  with 
the  action  than  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  story. 
Some  recent  popular  novels  describe  the  lay  of  the 
land  in  their  titles  beginning  with  the  "Valley"  of 
such  and  such  a  place.  Instead  of  this,  make  a 
quick  dart  into  the  heart  of  your  drama  and  bring 
out  something  of  all-compelling  interest.  A  title 
that  interests  the  public  in  the  leading  character 
through  striking  the  note  of  his  nature  is  good. 
Regarded  from  the  screen  standpoint,  "The  Cor- 


104  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

sair"  is  a  better  title  than  "Childe  Harold/5  as  the 
one  instantly  suggests  picturesque  outlines  which 
the  imagination  can  fill  in,  while  the  other,  being 
merely  a  name,  does  not  hold  the  attention.  As 
a  rule  it  is  better  not  to  name  the  story  after  one 
of  the  characters.  Some  splendid  dramatic  novels 
have  been  thus  handicapped  by  their  names.  It  has 
been  necessary  to  change  the  title  of  some.  This 
has  been  prejudicial  to  them  and  has  lessened  their 
value.  Some  good  novels  have  been  rejected  en- 
tirely on  account  of  poor  titles.  It  is  only  when  a 
book  has  been  long  before  the  public  that  the  name 
stands  for  the  association.  No  one  would  meddle 
-with  "David  Copperfield,"  "Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr. 
Hyde,"  or  "Adam  Bede,"  under  any  circum- 
stances. But  you  cannot  take  these  cases  as  a 
precedent  for  yourself  in  the  beginning  of  your 
career.  No  young  writer  can  afford  to  pattern  him- 
self after  the  exceptional  models.  So  you  may  take 
it  as  a  general  rule  that  a  short,  snappy,  taking 
title  will  often  unlock  the  door  for  you  where  a 
commonplace  one  would  fail. 

Although  you  will  not  need  to  use  the  technical 
screen  terms  in  writing  your  scenario,  it  is  highly 
desirable  that  you  should  understand  them,  so  I 
append  here  a  list  of  the  following  most  used  screen 
terms: 


TITLES  AND  SCREEN  TERMS         105 

SCENARIO:  A  working  or  detailed  synopsis  of  the  plot  told  in 

story  form. 

SYNOPSIS  :  An  abstract  of  your  story  told  in  picturizing  words. 
CAST:  Cast  or  Character  Cast,  a  list  of  the  personages  of  chief 

importance  in  your  story. 
CONTINUITY:  An  extension  of  the  scenario  in  which  everything 

is  detailed,  including  scenes,  sub-titles,  and  inserts  as  they 

are  to  be  used  by  the  director. 
SCENE  PLOT:  A  list  of  the  scenes  used  in  the  continuity, 

grouped  together  according  to  the  place  hi  which  they 

occur,  so  that  the  director  may  tell  at  a  glance  exactly  how 

many  scenes  are  to  be  taken  in  each  set. 
SET:  An  interior,  such  as  court-room,  drawing-room,  dining- 
room,  etc.   Arrangement  of  background  or  furniture  for  a 

scene. 
LOCATION:  An  exterior  or  place  outside  of  a  studio  where 

scenes  are  photographed. 
STUDIO:  The  place  where  photoplays  are  made. 
SCENE:  The  action  in  a  photoplay  that  is  taken  without  stop* 

ping  the  camera. 
MAIN  TITLE:  Name  of  a  play. 
SUB-TITLES  :  A  word  or  sentence  thrown  on  the  screen  between 

scenes;  either  introducing  a  new  character  or  explaining 

something  not  covered  by  the  action. 
LAPSE  OF  TIME  TITLE:  A  sub-title,  such  as  "Twenty  Years 

Later."  These  should  be  avoided  as  much  as  possible.  An 

interesting  sub-title  may  be  used  to  carry  on  the  story  and 

suggest  lapse  of  tune. 
INSERT:  A  letter,  telegram,  newspaper  item,  or  any  other 

matter  of  a  similar  kind  thrown  on  the  screen  between 

scenes  to  explain  a  situation. 
FLASH  :  A  rapid  reappearance  on  the  screen  of  something  seen 

before;  as  when  an  insert  has  been  shown  and  the  audience 

have  read  it  and  it  is  shown  on  the  screen  again  merely  for  a 

moment. 


106  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

VISIONING  :  A  character  remembering  the  past,  dreaming  or 
meditating.  This  effect  is  obtained  by  double  exposure. 

DOUBLE  EXPOSURE:  A  camera  trick — used  in  showing  charac- 
ters in  dangerous  scenes,  as  in  falling  over  precipices,  bridges 
or  buildings.  First  the  camera  is  taken  to  the  top  of  the 
building  or  bridge  or  cliff  and  the  scene  is  photographed. 
Then  in  the  studio  the  film  is  rewound  and  a  scene  is  taken 
showing  the  actor  walking  as  though  on  the  building,  but 
all  the  while  in  perfect  safety.  Double  Exposure  is  also  used 
in  "Visioning,"  and  in  "Dual  Roles." 

CLOSE-UP:  A  character  or  scene  photographed  with  the  camera 
near  the  object  or  action. 

IBIS:  A  device  on  the  camera  lens  which  permits  the  view  to 
be  gradually  enlarged  or  reduced  until  the  scene  disappears. 
"Iris  In"  or  "Iris  Out"  are  directions  used  in  continuities. 

DISSOLVE:  One  scene  gradually  becomes  indistinct,  but  before 
it  has  ended  another  scene  has  begun;  that  is  the  overlap- 
ping of  parts  of  two  scenes. 

CUT-BACK:  Cut-Back,  or  Throw-Back,  is  an  arrangement  of 
scenes  whereby  the  action  in  a  play  is  interrupted  to  show 
another  scene  and  then  returned  to  the  former  scene.  The 
Cut-Back  is  used  to  create  suspense,  to  eliminate  too  fre- 
quent use  of  sub-titles,  and  to  cover  a  lapse  in  action. 

REVERSE  ACTION:  A  scene  is  photographed,  but  the  camera  is 
running  backward.  When  the  film  is  completed  and  shown, 
the  effect  is  of  an  automobile  running  up  a  hill  or  an  actor 
jumping  from  the  ground  to  the  top  of  a  building. 

REEL:  About  one  thousand  feet  of  film.  Feature  pictures  run 
from  five  to  seven  reels.  Comedies  are  as  a  rule  one  or  two 
reelers. 

SHOOT:  A  studio  term  meaning  to  photograph. 

EPISODE:  A  part  of  a  serial,  about  two  reels. 

FADE-IN:  A  gradual  appearance  of  a  scene  upon  the  screen. 

FADE-OUT:  A  gradual  disappearance  of  a  scene  upon  the 
screen. 


TITLES  AND  SCREEN  TERMS          107 

LEAD:  The  principal  character  in  a  photoplay;  either  male  or 

female. 
PROPS:  An  abbreviation  of  properties;  the  various  articles  or 

objects  used  in  producing  a  photoplay. 
SCRIPT:  An  abbreviation  of  manuscript.      . 
SCREEN:  The  plain  surface  on  which  a  photoplay  is  projected. 
STILL:  A  photograph  taken  with  an  ordinary  camera  and 
I    showing  a  scene  or  characters  from  a  photoplay;  usually 

used  for  advertising  purposes. 

ANGLE-SHOT  :  A  view  of  a  scene  taken  from  a  different  angle. 
RELEASE:  A  certain  date  on  which  a  play  is  given  out  for 

exhibition. 
RELEASE  TITLE:  The  main  title  finally  chosen  for  a  photoplay. 

Sometimes  a  temporary  or  working  title  is  used  while  the 

picture  is  being  produced  and  this  is  changed  before  the 

picture  is  released. 
RETAKE:  When  a  scene  is  unsatisfactory  it  is  photographed 

a  second  time. 

REGISTER:  To  portray  emotions. 
TRUCK-BACK:  The  act  of  moving  the  camera  back  from  the 

scene  while  it  is  being  photographed. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  ART  OF  PICTURIZING 

THE  scenario  writer  who  makes  a  study  of  his  craft 
will  follow  in  many  respects  the  method  of  the 
child  in  materializing  his  fancies.  The  child  collects 
his  toys  about  him  and  proceeds  to  construct 
something  that  is  the  outward  symbol  of  a  story 
he  has  in  his  head.  As  he  builds,  he  makes  a  run- 
ning commentary,  explaining  to  himself  what  the 
meaning  is  of  each  bit  he  adds  on.  He  is  not  satis- 
fied with  the  mental  outline  of  his  story  until  he 
perceives  it  actually  shown  in  some  kind  of  shape, 
however  rough,  before  his  eyes. 

Now,  this  is  precisely  what  the  scenario  writer 
must  do  with  his  plot;  work  it  out  bit  by  bit  in 
mental  pictures  until  every  incident,  every  scene, 
is  as  vivid  to  him  as  if  it  existed  in  actual  color  and 
form  before  him.  With  his  bare  outline  open  before 
him  he  should  begin  and  write  out  briefly  but 
clearly  each  scene,  successively,  as  it  will  appear  in 
the  screen  version  of  his  story.  It  will  be  well  for 
him  to  accept  the  hint  the  child  gives  him,  and 
realize  how  necessary  it  is  that  each  incident  should 
be  made  the  subject  of  a  separate  act  of  picturiza- 


THE  ART  OF  PICTURIZING  109 

tion.  The  building  up  of  a  scenario  is  a  constant 
succession  of  picturized  incidents.  There  must  be 
no  breaks,  no  lapses,  no  interludes  that  are  un- 
accounted for.  If  any  period  of  time  intervenes 
between  one  scene  and  another  —  a  day,  a  week, 
ten  years  —  it  must  be  indicated  by  a  caption  ex- 
planatory of  the  interval.  All  this  work  is  to  be  un- 
dertaken for  the  benefit  of  your  own  composition; 
not  in  order  that  you  may  give  a  "continuity"  to 
the  scenario  editor.  It  is  not  necessary  to  show  this 
comprehensive  scenario  at  all;  your  abstract  of  it, 
or  synopsis,  will  be  sufficient.  But  if  you  do  not 
take  the  trouble  to  make  such  a  continuity  for 
yourself,  you  will  scarcely  find  it  possible  to  write 
a  perfect  synopsis,  with  every  striking  picture 
brought  out  distinctly,  for  the  examination  of  the 
scenario  editor.  And  recollect  that  he  is  not  going 
to  supplement  your  defects  by  the  use  of  his  supe- 
rior intelligence;  he  has  other  demands  upon  his 
time.  Your  story  must  stand  or  fall  upon  its  power 
of  picturization. 

The  method  you  will  have  to  pursue,  to  produce 
a  powerful  synopsis,  is  to  write  out  for  yourself, 
first,  the  complete  scenario  something  after  this 
fashion:  With  pad  and  pencil  at  hand  jot  down  the 
opening  scene  of  your  story  in  a  few  words.  Then 
close  your  eyes  and  picture  that  scene  vividly  in 


110  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

your  imagination.  If  you  are  not  able  to  make  a 
clear  picture  of  what  you  have  written,  —  if  it  is 
a  blurred  and  hazy  sketch,  merely  suggesting  some- 
thing which  you  know  exists  somewhere  in  the 
back  of  your  own  brain,  but  has  not  yet  been  made 
into  definite  shape,  —  then  either  cut  it  out  as 
valueless,  or  else  go  over  and  over  it  until  you  have 
wrought  out  of  the  haze  the  actual  picture  you 
wish.  There  is  the  temptation  to  slur  this  part 
of  your  work;  it  is,  I  acknowledge,  the  real  drudg- 
ery of  photoplay  writing,  and  until  it  grows  easy 
to  you  through  much  practice  it  will  be  very  hard. 
But  the  result  pays.  The  act  of  intense  concentra- 
tion is  in  itself  a  triumph  of  mind  over  matter,  and 
the  more  you  practise  it  the  more  your  mind  will 
grow. 

Having  formed  your  mental  picture,  concen- 
trate deeply  upon  it,  banishing  by  force  of  will 
every  irrelevant  fancy.  You  will  need  for  this  work 
what  George  Eliot  called  "deep  inward  vision"  — 
the  most  wonderful  acquirement  of  the  human 
brain,  and  the  one  that  more  than  any  other  is  the 
mark  of  superior  genius.  If  you  do  not  succeed, 
after  many  efforts,  in  keeping  all  your  attention 
upon  your  subject,  do  not  give  it  all  up,  neverthe- 
less, for  this  is  the  only  road  to  excellent  achieve- 
ment in  the  work  of  scenario  writing. 


THE  ART  OF  PICTURIZING  111 

When  you  have  mentally  portrayed  your  first 
scene  and  explained  it  in  colorful  words  in  your 
text,  then  go  on  to  the  next  one,  outlining  it  in  the 
same  manner,  reproducing  this  process  throughout 
the  entire  course  of  your  story  until  the  climax  is 
reached.  If  you  can  draw  even  a  little,  you  will 
find  it  very  useful  to  make  some  sort  of  sketch  of 
each  one  of  your  important  characters,  so  that  he 
may  appear  before  you  as  you  write  out  his  part. 
You  should  fasten  your  attention  so  hard  upon  the 
personage  you  wish  to  make  prominent  that  he  will 
take  on  the  very  characteristics  of  the  vigor  with 
which  your  mind  is  endowing  him.  When  you  have 
succeeded  in  creating  a  really  individual  character, 
one  who  can  act  and  live,  then  you  may  congratu- 
late yourself  upon  having  accomplished  a  master- 
piece of  fiction,  whether  it  ever  succeeds  commer- 
cially or  not.  But  the  probability  is  that  in  the  long 
run  any  excellent  achievement  will  triumph  over 
circumstances;  snubbed  for  the  time,  it  will  even- 
tually overcome  its  troubles  and  demonstrate  its 
worth;  for  the  world  is  sorely  in  need  of  superior 
work. 

I  suggest  that  of  all  things  you  avoid  "the  evil 
consequences  of  hurry  "  in  this  business.  A  wise  old 
author  once  said  that  few  people  know  what  a  fac- 
tor time  is  in  the  working  out  of  good  ideas.  Al- 


112  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

though  I  believe  in  writing  out  a  plot  "at  a  heat," 
before  it  has  opportunity  to  slip  away  from  you,  I 
also  believe  that  one  should  be  very  careful  and 
deliberate  in  elaborating  the  details  of  his  story. 
Be  a  critic  of  your  own  work;  use  good  judgment 
about  it,  and  do  not  be  too  partial  to  yourself.  If 
you  are  over-lenient  about  your  faults,  somebody 
else  will  be  as  strict  as  you  are  indulgent,  and  in  the 
end  you  will  be  mortified  over  faults  you  have  neg- 
lected to  amend.  It  is  better  for  you  to  be  severe 
toward  yourself  than  to  solicit  the  advice  of  your 
friends.  They  will  either  flatter  you  or  misunder- 
stand you,  and  in  the  latter  case  you  may  be  led  to 
discard  something  that  is  really  good.  An  idea  that 
has  your  own  approval  ought  not  to  be  knocked 
out  by  the  contempt  of  somebody  who  does  not 
know  half  as  well  as  you  do  just  what  you  are  trying 
to  do.  You  yourself  are  the  best  judge  of  your  own 
ideas,  if  you  will  be  honest  with  yourself.  The  mer- 
cantile worth  of  them  will  be  decided  by  others, 
but  their  intrinsic  value  is  properly  appreciated 
by  their  own  author  unless  his  judgment  is  sadly 
warped.  So  keep  the  lamp  of  faith  burning  within 
you  day  after  day,  and  work  on  resolutely,  con- 
centrating with  all  your  power  upon  the  wonderful 
work  of  picturization. 
Every  writer  strikes  out,  in  the  course  of  his 


THE  ART  OF  PICTURIZING  113 

work,  some  little  original  methods  that  are  helpful 
to  himself.  One  will  make  a  chart  of  his  plot; 
another  a  map;  some  one  else  cannot  work  profit- 
ably without  an  actual  set  of  manikins,  which  he 
manipulates  after  the  fashion  of  theatrical  charac- 
ters. Naturally,  you  will  follow  out  the  plan  you  dis- 
cover to  be  most  in  harmony  with  your  own  mood. 
The  great  point  is  to  keep  your  attention  steadily 
fixed  upon  your  story  until  it  becomes  to  you,  for 
the  time  being,  the  most  important  thing  in  the 
world.  It  is  essential,  while  your  story  is  in  prog- 
ress, that  you  should  work  on  it  every  day,  and  if 
possible  at  the  same  time  every  day.  Practised 
writers  find  that  the  action  of  the  brain  is  more 
or  less  mechanical  and  that  certain  moods,  certain 
impulses,  recur  at  about  the  same  hour  every  day. 
I  have  found  that  the  best  plan  is  to  think  out  my 
plan  for  the  next  day's  work  the  night  before,  and 
impress  upon  myself  upon  retiring  the  particular 
thing  that  is  to  be  done  in  the  morning.  Often  the 
brain  will  work  out  a  problem  in  sleep;  often  inspi- 
rations come  in  dreams. 

The  morning  is  the  best  time  for  work;  and  al- 
though there  are  many  writers  who  claim  that 
their  inspirations  come  at  night,  and  whose  habit 
it  is  to  "burn  the  midnight  oil,55  such  feverish 
energy  is  usually  short-lived,  and  the  author  who 


114  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

wishes  his  career  to  be  long  as  well  as  successful 
must  make  his  health  a  prime  consideration.  There 
is  an  old  book,  once  very  popular  and  now  antiqua- 
ted, that  gave  much  excellent  advice  upon  this 
subject.  It  is  "The  Intellectual  Life,"  by  Philip 
Gilbert  Hamerton.  He  divided  the  author's  life 
into  three  parts,  calling  them  the  physical  basis, 
the  moral  basis,  and  the  intellectual  basis;  and  he 
laid  enormous  stress  upon  the  value  of  the  physical 
basis,  insisting  upon  regular  exercise,  a  nourishing 
diet,  and  plenty  of  fresh  air.  To  these  I  should  add 
some  pleasant  recreation,  for  the  effect  of  cheerful- 
ness upon  the  system  is  very  great.  The  paramount 
importance  of  health  to  a  person  who  aims  to  con- 
centrate with  intensity  is  evident. 

Another  good  suggestion  is  that  you  should  try 
to  keep  in  the  same  mood  while  you  are  writing 
your  story.  If  it  began  with  a  joyful  tone,  you  must 
not  allow  yourself  to  lapse  into  seriousness;  or  if 
you  have  begun  with  the  intention  of  writing  strong 
melodrama,  it  will  be  necessary  to  keep  yourself 
keyed  up  to  that  pitch  throughout.  "The  author," 
says  Irving,  "should  go  over  in  his  mind  each  in- 
cident of  his  story  before  setting  it  to  paper  and 
determine  if  each  one  is  impregnated  with  the 
spirit  of  a  certain  mood.  If  not,  then  he  must  ruth- 
lessly cast  it  aside;  it  certainly  will  not  aid  in 


THE  ART  OF  PICTURIZING  115 

securing  unity  of  expression;  for,  to  bring  about  this 
desired  effect,  every  event  must  be  inevitable  to 
the  clear  working  out  of  the  plot  and  must  be  in 
mood  with  all  the  rest  of  the  plot  fabric." 

The  world's  great  authors  have  all  possessed  the 
power  of  keeping  in  the  mood  of  their  work.  They 
harmonized  thoroughly  with  their  characters  and 
their  plots.  Perhaps  the  most  striking  trait  of 
Dickens  was  his  extraordinary  power  of  throwing 
himself  into  the  mood  of  his  story.  It  was  related 
of  him  by  Mundello,  who  painted  his  portrait  as 
he  was  working  in  his  library,  that  "he  worked  with 
intensity,  almost  with  agony,"  seeming  to  live  and 
breathe  in  the  creatures  of  his  imagination. 

It  may  seem  to  you  that  all  this  writing  of  con- 
tinuity is  exhausting  and  not  worth  while,  since  you 
are  not  going  to  offer  it  for  sale  when  completed, 
but  look  upon  it  from  the  point  of  view  of  stored-up 
material  from  which  you  are  to  select  the  essential 
points  of  your  plot.  As  I  said  before,  a  working 
synopsis  of  about  five  thousand  words  is  the  proper 
form  in  which  to  submit  your  story.  As  it  is  in 
reality  a  condensed  novel,  you  will  realize  that 
every  phrase  must  make  a  point  and  that  there  can 
be  nothing  in  the  way  of  description  or  philoso- 
phizing. The  more  vividly  you  are  able  to  picture 
your  scenes  for  yourself,  the  easier  it  will  be  for 


116  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

the  scenario  editor  to  comprehend  and  appreciate 
your  story.  He  cannot  understand  what  you  are 
driving  at  unless  you  have  succeeded  in  projecting 
a  picture  before  his  imagination.  I  emphasize  this 
so  distinctly  because  it  is  so  easy  for  a  writer  to 
/suppose  that  he  has  made  a  very  strong  picture, 
which  will  be  weather-proof  through  all  the  changes 
it  will  be  subjected  to,  when  really  his  tones  will 
not  wash.  Considered  from  the  practical  point  of 
view  a  scenario  is  not  so  different  from  any  other 
material  substance  that  must  pass  through  many 
examining  hands.  Your  pictures  must  be  beauti- 
ful enough  to  satisfy  the  critics  who  view  it  from 
the  standpoint  of  good  taste,  and  it  must  be  clear 
and  definite  enough  to  satisfy  the  exactions  of  the 
craftsmen  who  are  going  to  put  it  upon  the  screen. 
So  all  the  time  that  you  are  writing  your  story,  you 
are  obliged  to  keep  in  mind  the  people  who  are 
going  to  make  a  picture  out  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XII 

WHAT  IS  AND  WHAT  IS  NOT  POSSIBLE 
ON  THE  SCREEN 

THE  business  of  writing  for  the  screen  must  be  con- 
sidered from  two  different  aspects:  first,  the  prac- 
ticability of  your  story  in  the  hands  of  the  camera 
man,  and  secondly,  its  qualities  for  pleasing  the 
audience.  We  have  already  covered  most  of  the 
latter  part  of  this  subject  and  but  little  more  re- 
mains to  say;  but  we  have  only  slightly  touched 
upon  the  mechanical  part  of  the  photoplay  and  we 
will  deal  with  that  now. 

The  "photoplay  stage"  comprises  a  range  of 
about  fifteen  feet  around  the  camera.  When  an 
actor  moves  out  of  this  range  the  camera  is  forced 
to  move  also  to  get  him  within  its  focus.  Conse- 
quently, in  writing  your  synopsis,  be  careful  not  to 
include  too  much  space  in  a  scene.  You  may  show 
a  vista  or  f ar-off  view  of  a  street  or  a  ballroom,  for 
instance,  but  a  closer  view  of  only  a  small  section 
of  them.  Many  things  that  are  possible  in  ph  .>- 
play  producing  are  difficult  to  do,  and  so,  if  they 
can  be  avoided,  they  would  better  be. 


118  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

If  you  are  imagining  the  action  of  a  troop  of 
horsemen  dashing  along  the  road  kicking  up  a 
tremendous  lot  of  dust,  recollect  that  such  a  dust 
will  obscure  the  action  of  the  camera.  Singular  and 
interesting  effects  are  sometimes  produced  un- 
expectedly in  the  act  of  photography.  A  writer 
lately  adduced  an  instance  where  two  airplanes 
collided  in  mid-air  while  the  camera  was  grinding. 
Spectators  who  see  this  in  a  story  would  naturally 
infer  that  it  was  intentionally  produced  at  enor- 
mous expense  and  with  great  pains;  where,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  a  purely  fortuitous  occurrence  hap- 
pening to  strike  the  camera  was  seized  upon  by 
the  cutting  editor  and  incorporated  by  him  into  the 
story  he  was  working  upon.  You  may  see  in  the 
next  picture  you  go  to  witness  some  remarkable 
scene  of  steamboat  collision,  railroad  accident,  or 
other  phenomenal  occurrences  and  go  away  en- 
couraged to  believe  that  if  other  writers  can  make 
use  of  such  effects  you  may  also  introduce  them  into 
your  scenarios.  Although  producers  will  go  to  in- 
credible expense  to  give  splendor  to  a  great  story, 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  exaggeration  on  the  screen 
as  there  is  on  the  stage  and  "things  are  not  always 
what  they  seem."  Producers  are  very  desirous  of 
avoiding  all  unnecessary  expense  and  young  writers 
cannot  be  too  careful  to  maintain  simplicity  and 


POSSIBILITIES  OF  THE  SCREEN       119 

economy  in  the  production  of  their  stories.  To  be 
able  to  judge  accurately  between  what  is  really 
expensive  and  what  is  not,  one  not  only  must  study 
the  taking  of  pictures  in  the  studio,  but  also  "on 
location/'  On  both  the  eastern  and  western  coasts 
there  are  opportunities  of  seeing  the  camera  at 
work  out  of  doors,  and  the  scenario  writer  must 
keep  himself  posted  upon  the  movements  of  pro- 
ducing companies  and  take  advantage  of  every 
chance  to  see  the  camera  at  work.  Out  in  Holly- 
wood I  one  day  saw  the  camera  at  work  upon  "a 
rescue  scene,"  where  a  girl  was  fleeing  on  horseback 
from  a  troop  of  brigands.  The  rescue  was  effected 
by  a  cowboy  who  swung  her  onto  his  horse  from 
her  own  and  rode  off  with  her.  The  location  chosen 
for  the  scene  was  a  vacant  corner  where  there  was 
much  wild  growth  and  the  ground  rose  gradually 
until  it  lost  itself  in  the  hill  country.  There  were 
half  a  dozen  men  and  horses  and  the  girl  with  her 
horse,  but  the  scene  was  so  adroitly  managed  by 
the  passing  and  repassing  of  these  few  men  and 
horses  that  they  were  made  to  appear  like  a  troop. 
It  was  most  interesting  to  watch  the  directing  of 
this  little  scene.  The  heroine  had  rather  a  hard 
time  of  it  tumbling  off  the  saddle  and  being  planted 
upon  it  again  as  the  director  made  her  go  over  and 
over  her  part  until  she  got  it  to  suit  him.  She  had 


120  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

to  fall  down  and  be  hauled  about  until  her  muscles 
must  have  ached  considerably  from  the  strain.  But 
as  heroines  must,  she  took  it  merrily,  and  it  was  all 
in  the  day's  work  for  her.  . 

It  is  instructive  for  writers  to  observe  and  take 
notes  of  outdoor  scenes  like  this.  One  learns  only 
through  experience  the  economy  of  means  used  by 
the  director  to  produce  big  effects,  and  the  writer 
will  aid  him  materially  by  so  constructing  his 
story  as  to  bring  all  essential  effects  within  the  easy 
compass  of  the  camera.  Here  is  where  practical 
knowledge  comes  in  and  proves  the  immense  ad- 
vantage of  the  observing,  careful  writer  over  the 
careless  amateur. 

Among  the  things  to  avoid  is  the  risking  of 
actors'  lives.  Where  your  story  demands  the  jeop- 
ardizing of  life,  the  director  will  take  it  into  con- 
sideration. He  will  know  how  this  can  be  accom- 
plished without  actual  danger.  Avoid  unusual 
weather  conditions  and  extraordinary  outdoor 
scenic  effects  in  general.  Wonderful  things  may  be 
done  and  are  being  done  with  the  camera,  but  it  is 
too  venturesome  of  a  writer  to  insist  upon  mar- 
vellous effects. 

Passing  from  the  mechanical  difficulties  to  the 
moral  ones  brings  us  to  consideration  of  the  Na- 
tional Board  of  Censorship.  Anita  Loos,  who  is  an 


POSSIBILITIES  OF  THE  SCREEN        121 

authority  upon  this   subject,   says  the  National 
Board  will  usually  disapprove: 

1.  Pictures  in  which  a  character  triumphs  by  virtue  of  im- 
morality alone,  as  in  the  case  of  a  woman  who  takes 
"the  easiest  way"  and  achieves  thereby  greater  success 
and  happiness  than  her  honest  sister. 

2.  Scenes  of  debauchery. 

3.  Stories  written  for  the  sole  purpose  of  featuring  some 
unique  or  shocking  crime. 

4.  Scenes  showing  the  technical  methods  of  committing 
crimes. 

5.  Stories  which  might  incite  impressionable  persons  to  mis* 
chief  by  virtue  of  mental  suggestion.    This  classification 
includes  lynching  scenes  when  laid  in  the  present;  scenes 
which  emphasize  suicide  as  a  means  of  ending  one's 
troubles;  cruel  practical  jokes,  especially  when  perpe- 
trated by  youngsters;  and  pictures  in  which  deadly 
weapons  constantly  appear. 

6.  Unpatriotic  themes. 

7.  Stories  which  would  encourage  Bolshevism  or  anarchy. 

8.  Stories  tending  to  justify  "the  unwritten  law"  as  an 
excuse  for  murder. 

9.  Libels  on  persons,  places,  or  industries. 

I  will  add  to  this  that  anything  likely  to  hurt  the 
feelings  of  the  average  audience  must  be  avoided, 
such  as  plays  of  partisanship  in  which  any  particu- 
lar form  of  religion  is  ridiculed  or  thrown  into  dis- 
favor. Exceptions  to  this  are  Mohammedanism 
and  Mormonism:  religions  which  are  so  little  in 
favor  with  the  average  civilized  audience  that 


122  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

criticism  of  them  is  tolerated.  But  no  story  in 
which  Quakers  or  Shakers  or  other  sects  are  made 
absurd  should  be  introduced,  and  although  certain 
episodes  are  occasionally  brought  in  of  the  im- 
mersion of  shrieking  victims  in  a  river,  even  such 
instances  may  offend  the  susceptibilities  of  some 
rigid  person  in  the  audience  and  would  better  be 
avoided.  Anything  that  contains  too  broad  a 
criticism  of  particular  localities  would  be  likely 
to  be  rejected  by  the  scenario  editor  because  the 
average  person  is  exceedingly  susceptible  on  the 
point  of  his  own  home  region. 

Notwithstanding  these  few  conventions,  which 
are  really  after  all  more  matters  of  good  taste  than 
anything  else,  the  scope  of  the  scenario  writer  is 
extensive.  It  is  as  broad  as  life  itself;  or  rather  as 
broad  as  that  portion  of  life  which  you  can  by  any 
possibility  compass  within  your  own  experience. 
And  by  experience  I  do  not  necessarily  mean  what 
you  have  actually  passed  through  in  your  own  per- 
sonality, but  all  that  has  become  part  and  parcel  of 
your  own  emotional  life.  Stories  related  by  oth- 
ers to  you  that  have  stirred  you  deeply  take  their 
place  in  the  volume  of  memory  as  story  material. 
A  single  wave  of  sympathy  stirred  by  another's 
sufferings  may  give  you  a  thousand  thrills  which, 
passing  through  your  mental  organism  in  many 


POSSIBILITIES  OF  THE  SCREEN        123 

different  channels,  may  become  the  impulses  for 
innumerable  plots.  What  you  may  write  about  is 
chiefly  a  matter  of  what  you  can  best  write  about. 
If  you  are  honest  with  yourself  you  know  something 
of  your  own  limitations  and  powers.  Experience 
will  teach  you  that  you  can  make  vivid  stories  from 
what  is  nearest  to  your  life  and  your  heart.  It  is 
best  for  you  to  study  your  own  locale  thoroughly; 
the  better  you  know  it,  the  more  you  will  be  enabled 
to  bring  in  realistic  touches.  But  do  not  cherish 
the  delusion,  which  is  common  among  young 
writers,  that  merely  because  an  extraordinary 
thing  is  true  and  has  actually  come  within  your 
experience  it  thereby  constitutes  an  interesting 
story.  Some  one  remarked  that  "art  is  a  bit  of 
nature  seen  through  a  temperament."  I  have  had 
many  stories  sent  to  me  with  the  preface:  "This 
story  is  true  and  the  incidents  actually  happened." 
Now,  editors  learn  to  shun  stories  of  this  character. 
They  are  pretty  sure  to  be  devoid  of  real  dramatic 
point  and  intrinsic  value.  It  is  not  facts,  but  the 
way  in  which  you  present  facts,  that  makes  a 
story.  You  must  set  out  to  captivate  the  sympa- 
thies of  your  audience.  Exaggerate  slightly  the 
fine  qualities  of  your  hero  or  heroine.  Exaggeration 
is  permitted  in  literature,  desired  in  drama,  and  or- 
dained on  the  screen.  There  is  something  about  the 


124  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAT 

very  art  of  photography  that  calls  for  exaggeration. 
Perhaps  you  will  recollect  having  been  displeased 
with  a  photograph  of  yourself  which  you  knew  in 
your  heart  was  accurate  in  every  detail,  but  some- 
how it  lacked  that  ineffable,  indefinable  quality 
that  makes  a  photograph  pleasing.  What  you 
exact  for  your  own  picture  is  analogous  to  what  an 
audience  unconsciously  demands  of  the  screen.  It 
wants  the  veil  of  romance  thrown  over  the  com- 
monplace. It  wants  life  dressed  up  so  skilfully 
that  while  the  idea  of  actuality  is  always  present 
the  suggestion  of  romance  is  never  absent.  Love 
stories  appeal  to  all  the  world,  since  "all  the  world 
loves  a  lover."  Scarcely  any  one  is  cynical  enough 
to  dislike  love  scenes  unless  it  be  the  very  small  boy 
who  deems  it  manly  to  mock  at  sentiment.  Elderly 
people  who  have  retained  any  human  sentiments 
revel  in  romantic  stories  because  they  recall  their 
own  youth  while,  of  course,  to  the  young  love 
stories  are  always  delightful. 

Beside  the  love  interest  there  is  the  element  of 
human  interest  which  touches  every  one  in  the 
world.  H.  C.  Warnack  said  very  aptly:  "Why  is  it, 
since  everybody  is  trying  to  write  motion  picture 
plays,  that  the  studios  all  over  the  country  cry  out 
that  they  are  starving  for  stories?  Mostly,  the 
answer  is  that  our  stories  are  not  human.  They 


POSSIBILITIES  OF  THE  SCREEN        125 

are  things  we  think  up.  They  are  mechanically 
clever.  They  have  plot  and  action,  but  they  are 
not  human.  They  have  artifice,  but  they  are  also 
artificial.  They  have  none  of  that  spontaneity  of 
the  thing  that  springs  from  the  heart.  They  are  not 
written  with  a  glow  and  they  bring  no  new  joy  to 
the  beholder  when  once  they  have  been  filmed. 
They  have  none  of  that  stuff  that  makes  the  bud 
and  bloom  of  springtime.  They  amuse  the  mind, 
but  the  laughter  they  provoke  is  not  from  the 
heart,  and  they  have  no  tears." 

But  perhaps  the  best  summing  up  of  the  philoso- 
phy of  How  To  Do  It  is  contained  in  Wilkie  Col- 
lins's  terse  advice  upon  the  method  of  impressing 
an  audience:  "Make  'em  laugh,  make  'em  cry, 
make  'em  wait."  I  have  analyzed  this  formula  and 
find  that  it  constitutes  the  best  marching  orders 
any  writer  can  follow.  You  are  commanded  first 
to  amuse  and  entertain  your  audience;  to  attract 
attention  in  some  pleasant  way  and  win  interest 
in  what  is  to  follow.  So  this  involves  your  choosing 
an  unusual  subject.  Not  necessarily  a  grotesque  or 
extraordinary  or  incredible  one,  but  something 
with  freshness  and  variety  in  it.  In  comedies  the 
amusement  that  you  create  must  be  kept  up 
through  the  entire  story.  After  the  audience  has 
finished  one  laugh,  it  expects  another  one  to  be 


126  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

provoked,  and  you  must  satisfy  it.  Genuine  humor 
is  scarce,  yet  human  nature  craves  fun  more  than 
anything  else,  and  that  is  why  mock  humor  is  often 
used  to  supply  the  lack  of  what  is  really  funny. 
It  would  seem  that  ludicrous  adventures  had  been 
exhausted,  and  yet  every  day  sees  some  new  eccen- 
tricity more  or  less  mirth-provoking.  Make  your 
audience  laugh  if  you  possibly  can.  To  make  it  cry 
is  a  matter  of  finer  diplomacy  and  a  more  difficult 
achievement.  Your  appeal  to  sentiment  or  feeling 
must  be  very  real,  very  genuine,  to  make  its  effect 
upon  an  audience  which  is  keen  to  detect  the  least 
trace  of  artificiality.  People  will  refuse  to  squeeze 
forth  a  single  tear  if  they  can  help  it;  if  you  want 
them  to  weep  for  you,  your  story  must  be  really 
compelling. 

So  Wilkie  Collins's  order  is  a  large  one  and  it 
becomes  stupendous  in  its  final  clause:  "make  'em 
wait."  In  the  chapter  upon  "Plot"  I  have  treated 
of  this  suspense  element  which  is  the  greatest  fac- 
tor in  the  dramatic  story;  so  I  will  now  go  on  to 
speak  about  the  avoidance  of  hackneyed  themes. 
I  think  too  much  has  been  said  upon  this  to  the 
discouragement  of  young  writers.  A  list  of  plots 
that  have  been  done  to  death  would  make  any 
beginner  believe  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
strike  out  anything  novel.  It  is  easy  for  a  jaded 


POSSIBILITIES  OP  THE  SCREEN        127 

critic  to  snap  out  advice  about  avoiding  such  ideas 
as  the  child  stolen  by  gipsies;  two  men  in  love  with 
one  girl;  the  revenge  of  a  discharged  workman; 
reconciliation  effected  by  a  child;  the  poor,  lone- 
some relation  made  happy  at  the  Christmas  festi- 
val; or  the  heroic  choice  between  love  and  duty. 
But  if  you  eliminate  these  you  strike  out  most  of 
the  themes  about  which  it  is  possible  to  weave 
original  plots.  Again  I  repeat,  it  is  not  the  plot 
but  the  handling  that  makes  the  original  story.  If 
two  thousand  years  ago  "there  was  nothing  new 
under  the  sun,"  that  must  be  absolutely  true  to- 
day; but  it  never  was  and  never  will  be  absolutely 
true  so  long  as  the  human  heart  responds  to  the 
note  of  melody  evoked  by  skilful  fingers  from  an 
old  instrument.  The  ancient  instrument  of  love  is 
still  capable  of  a  million  tunes.  You  yourself  are 
just  a  little  different  from  all  your  forbears.  Work 
hard  to  bring  to  the  light  that  slight  difference, 
cultivate  it  as  the  basic  material  for  a  new  twist  in 
the  old  plot.  You  cannot  avoid  dealing  with  trite 
subjects,  and  the  authority  who  suggests  it  gives 
advice  which  it  is  impossible  to  follow.  Does  not 
the  modern  artist  who  wishes  to  make  his  figures 
suggest  something  wonderful  conform  in  almost  all 
particulars  to  the  standard  which  has  been  followed 
for  centuries?  Yet  he  endeavors  to  add  some  little 


128  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

touch  which  makes  his  picture  differentiate  itself 
from  those  of  other  artists.  Does  the  Parisian 
designer  who  sends  out  "beautiful  creations"  this 
present  season  hope  that  he  has  been  able  to  ac- 
complish the  miracle  of  actually  evolving  anything 
new?  At  most,  he  has  made  new  combinations 
from  old  stuffs.  Now,  it  is  the  power  of  making 
new  combinations  that  will  elevate  you  above  the 
ranks  of  the  plodders  who  are  content  year  after 
year  to  tread  the  beaten  paths.  So  I  do  not  say, 
avoid  the  old  plot;  only,  make  it  fresh  by  your 
treatment. 

Allegories  and  dream  plays  are  not  popular  with 
editors  and  a  fairy  story  must  be  wonderfully  good 
to  get  by  that  practical  person.  Until  you  have 
achieved  a  solid  reputation  you  had  better  not  try 
the  costume  play.  A  little  study  of  this  matter  will 
convince  you  that  it  is  seldom  put  on  except  when 
accompanied  by  a  well-known  name.  The  slogan, 
"We  welcome  new  writers,"  swung  by  both  mag- 
azine editors  and  producers,  is  true;  nevertheless, 
the  new  writer  must  be  modest  and  tactful  if  he 
hopes  to  be  well  received.  I  heard  from  good 
authority  the  other  day  that,  although  the  historic 
drama  has  of  late  been  unpopular,  there  is  a  hint  of 
its  reappearance  at  no  distant  date.  So  if  you  have 
turned  out  some  historic  scenarios,  as  is  very  likely, 


POSSIBILITIES  OF  THE  SCREEN       129 

put  them  by  carefully  and  watch  the  signs  of  the 
times.  You  may  find  that  they  will  come  in  very 
well  a  few  months  hence. 

As  a  rule  all  good  ideas  work  in  somehow  or  other 
even  if  they  are  not  acceptable  in  exactly  the  form 
in  which  you  have  first  presented  them.  If  your 
first  efforts  are  rejected,  do  not  destroy  them  in  a 
fit  of  discouragement,  but  shelve  them  for  a  while, 
and  if  you  do  finally  tear  them  up  first  copy  into 
your  notebook  any  really  good  suggestions  they 
contain. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WRITING  THE  BRIEF  SYNOPSIS  OR 
OUTLINE 

IF  Nature  has  gifted  you  with  the  ability  to  utter 
a  thought  in  pat  terms,  be  thankful !  If  she  has  not 
been  so  kind,  you  must  devote  yourself  to  the  cul- 
tivation of  a  faculty  that  is  absolutely  necessary  to 
this  profession.  To  have  a  rich,  full  imagination  is 
a  wonderful  thing,  but  a  discursive  fancy  has  its 
pitfalls.  When  your  story  takes  hold  of  you  and 
enthuses  you,  such  a  wealth  of  ideas  may  bubble  up 
in  you  that  it  will  be  hard  for  you  to  hold  yourself 
in.  There  seems  to  be  so  much  to  say,  so  many 
interesting  phases  of  your  subject  unroll  before 
your  eyes,  that  your  fluent  pencil  races  on  and  on 
and  you  fill  your  pages  with  uncalculating  haste. 
This  is  an  excellent  thing  to  do  and  it  is  an  essential 
preliminary  to  the  next  step  in  your  work.  You 
have  followed  here  the  process  of  Nature,  who 
crowds  a  field  with  bloom  and  afterwards  causes 
many  buds  to  die  off  that  the  finer  types  may  sur- 
vive. From  your  abundance  you  may  now  under- 
take the  process  of  selection.  Cull  from  your  big 
field  the  stronger  and  better  ideas  and  discard  the 


WRITING  THE  BRIEF  SYNOPSIS       131 

rest.  The  law  of  natural  selection  which  prevails 
everywhere  applies  also  to  ideas.  You  are  the 
creative  force  and  yours  is  the  task  of  exercising 
wise  judgment  in  discarding  what  is  worthless  and 
keeping  what  is  good. 

The  art  of  selecting  from  a  multitude  of  ideas  the 
ones  that  go  straight  to  your  point  and  help  your 
story  is  the  very  fine  art  of  dramatic  writing.  But 
to  this  you  must  now  add  the  practical  craftsman- 
ship of  depicting  these  ideas  in  the  fewest  possible 
words.  As  I  said  at  the  beginning  of  this  chapter, 
if  you  have  not  naturally  the  art  of  condensation, 
cultivate  it  from  now  on  with  all  your  might. 
Carlyle  said,  "Produce!  Produce!  Though  it  were 
the  veriest  fraction  of  an  atom  that  were  in  you, 
produce!"  But  I  say  here,  Condense!  Condense! 
Gather  up  the  fullest  crop  of  ideas  you  can  cull 
from  your  brain,  put  them  into  beautiful  words, 
and  then  condense  them  to  the  briefest  form  possi- 
ble. You  are  approaching  the  busiest  of  mortals 
with  your  storied  idea.  His  first  glance  at  it  will  be 
one  of  wearied  cynicism.  Yet  he  will  take  up  your 
script  with  a  spark  of  hope  in  his  eye  that  it  may 
be  just  the  thing  he  has  long  been  looking  for.  If 
you  have  been  skilful  enough  to  make  the  leading, 
idea  of  your  story  so  emphatic  that  it  hits  him  like 
a  blow,  the  shock  will  be  a  very  pleasant  one  to 


132  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

him.  The  scenario  editor  is  a  good  sport.  He 
is  yearning  for  that  author  who  has  the  knack  of 
hitting  straight  out  from  the  shoulder  and  will 
welcome  with  all  his  heart  the  story  that  is  full  of 
snap  and  punch. 

Your  brief  synopsis  is  your  card  of  introduction 
to  the  scenario  editor.  He  may  not  be  rude  enough 
to  have  printed  on  his  door  the  mandate,  "Cut  it 
short/'  but  his  keen  eyes  have  an  expression  to  that 
effect  fixed  in  them.  So  cut  your  synopsis  short, 
but  leave  nothing  out  of  it.  Make  it  full  as  regards 
ideas  and  brief  as  to  words.  The  limit  of  words  is 
twelve  hundred,  and  if  you  can  put  your  story  into 
a  third  of  this,  all  the  better.  An  outline  of  the 
plot  is  all  that  is  really  indispensable.  If  your  char- 
acter cast  is  artistically  wrought  out,  it  will  help 
to  explain  what  is  not  dwelt  upon  in  your  synopsis. 

Here  follows  a  synopsis  of  the  novel  "Basil 
Everman,"  by  Elsie  Singmaster.  Thanks  are  due 
to  the  publishers  for  courteous  permission  to  use 
this. 

BRIEF  SYNOPSIS 

THE  little  town  of  Waltonville  is  stirred  with  excitement  over 
the  college  Commencement;  visitors  are  arriving  every  hour, 
and  among  them  is  a  young  man  from  New  York,  foppishly 
dressed,  speaking  with  an  English  accent,  who  seems  not  to 
belong  to  the  crowd.  He  pursues  an  inquiry  about  Basil 
Everman,  as  if  everybody  ought  to  recognize  the  name,  and 


WRITING  THE  BRIEF  SYNOPSIS        133 

penetrating  even  into  the  college  faculty  with  his  quest,  is 
finally  invited  by  Mrs.  Scott,  who  scents  a  notoriety,  to  her 
evening  reception.  Talking  with  her,  Utterly  learns,  to  his 
dismay,  that  Basil  Everman  is  dead;  his  sister,  Mrs.  Lister, 
might  be  able  to  furnish  the  information  that  is  sought. 
Utterly  loses  no  time  in  hunting  up  Mrs.  Lister,  but  she  will 
say  no  more  than  that  her  brother  Richard  "used  to  write 
some  ";  "did  n't  know  anything  was  published  ";  "  died  of  an 
epidemic  away  from  home."  Utterly  goes  away  raging  at  the 
stupid  indifference  to  what  he  calls  one  of  the  greatest  minds  of 
the  age;  an  equal  to  Poe.  He  shakes  in  the  faces  of  every  one 
he  can  get  to  listen,  three  magazines  containing  old  stories 
once  written  by  Basil,  now  unearthed  by  himself,  and  says  he 
would  give  anything  to  get  at  any  MSS.  Basil  has  left  behind 
him.  But  he  is  compelled  to  leave  Walton ville  without  his 
stuff.  He  has,  however,  met  Eleanor  Bent,  who  has  just 
written  a  story  for  his  magazine,  and  in  commenting  upon  her 
as  a  writer  of  promise  has  confirmed  in  the  morbid  mind  of  Mrs. 
Lister  a  strange,  weird  suspicion  she  has  long  cherished  about 
Basil  and  Eleanor's  mother;  a  quiet  little  woman  now  living  a 
blameless  existence,  but  about  whose  past  gossip  has  had  its 
say.  Dr.  Green's  intimacy  with  her  mother  has  given  Eleanor 
some  singular  feelings,  especially  as  Mrs.  Bent  shuns  all  ques- 
tions Eleanor  asks  about  her  father.  Mrs.  Lister  seriously 
believes  that  Basil,  whose  genius  had  seemed  to  her  narrow 
mind  "wildness,"  must  have  written  the  wonderful  story 
Utterly  had  read  her  —  "Bitter  Bread"  —  from  personal 
experience  of  sin;  and  when  her  son,  Richard,  tells  of  his  love 
for  Eleanor,  she  grows  hysterical  at  the  idea  that  he  is  in  love 
with  his  first  cousin,  illegitimate  child  of  her  brother,  and  for- 
bids the  alliance  with  all  her  force.  Miss  Thomasina,  a  lovely 
spinster,  who  has  taught  Richard  music,  has  encouraged  the 
young  man  to  become  a  musician,  and  the  mother  is  as  op- 
posed to  this  career  for  him  as  to  his  marriage  with  Eleanor. 
Little  Cora  Scott,  childish  and  sweet,  is  willing  to  obey  her 


134  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

mother  and  try  to  win  Richard,  but  when  she  realizes  how 
futile  her  efforts  are,  she  has  enough  character  to  tell  her 
father  that  she  is  going  to  make  something  out  of  her  life,  and 
will  help  him  edit  certain  MSS.  of  Basil,  found  accidentally  in 
the  garret  by  Dr.  Lister,  despite  Mrs.  Lister's  mistaken  at- 
tempts to  destroy  what  she  believes  sinful  stuff.  Richard,  an 
admirable  boy,  full  of  the  enthusiasms  and  hopes  of  youthful 
genius,  resolves  to  have  both  his  career  and  Eleanor,  and  goes 
without  asking  permission  to  Baltimore  to  play  before  a  cer- 
tain old  master,  friend  of  Miss  Thomasina.  He  has  left  a  note 
to  his  mother  on  his  pincushion,  but  it  has  blown  away  and 
she  believes  that  he  —  like  her  brother  Basil  —  has  gone  away 
from  home  on  some  wild,  wicked  jaunt!  Her  fanatical  mind  is 
jerked  back  to  sanity  rather  rudely  by  her  husband's  narrative 
of  finding  Basil's  valuable  papers  half  burned,  and  how  he  has 
rescued  them  and  given  them  to  Dr.  Scott  to  prepare  for  pub- 
lication. Then  Richard  comes  in  quietly,  asserts  that  he  is 
going  to  marry  Eleanor,  and  she  proclaims  that  he  cannot  — 
dare  not — because  of  the  close  relationship,  and  also  Eleanor's 
heritage  of  shame.  Richard's  father  takes  matters  in  hand  and 
goes  to  Baltimore  to  investigate  Basil's  past,  making  Richard 
promise  that  he  will  not  see  Eleanor  until  he  returns.  But  he 
gets  a  wrong  impression  from  what  he  hears,  and  confirms  Mrs. 
Lister's  idea  that  Basil  has  been  on  intimate  terms  with  Elea- 
nor's mother.  Richard  repeats  his  intention  to  marry  Eleanor. 
Dr.  Lister  privately  interviews  Dr.  Green  about  the  effect  upon 
offspring  of  cousins'  marrying.  And  Dr.  Green  darkly  relates 
terrible  tales.  Mrs.  Lister  now  resorts  to  Miss  Thomasina, 
hoping  for  her  influence  with  Richard,  but  Miss  Thomasina 
hotly  repels  every  insinuation  that  Basil  has  ever  been  "bad,'" 
and  as  she  has  her  own  suspicions  about  Eleanor's  parentage 
she  goes  to  Dr.  Green  to  find  out  some  things.  She  tells  him 
that  when  she  selected  at  a  Baltimore  store  a  grand  piano  for 
Eleanor,  on  the  entreaty  of  the  girl's  mother,  she  saw  on  the 
counter  of  the  store  a  check  with  his  name  on  it.  Dr.  Green 


WRITING  THE  BRIEF  SYNOPSIS        135 

stoutly  denies  everything,  but  soon  afterward  the  truth  as  to 
the  town  mystery  comes  out.  Eleanor's  mother  was  married 
to  the  Doctor  when  both  were  in  their  youth;  they  separated 
and  Mrs.  Bent,  as  she  called  herself,  came  back  to  live  in  her 
girlhood's  home,  not  knowing  that  he,  too,  had  returned 
there.  He  furnished  her  funds  in  abundance,  but  she  refused 
to  live  with  him.  He  watched  over  Eleanor,  and  saw  that  she 
was  well  educated,  but  could  not  openly  treat  her  as  her 
father.  The  diseased  idea  of  Mrs.  Lister  that  Basil  had  been 
"bad"  with  Eleanor's  mother  grew  out  of  her  seeing  the  two 
together  once  on  the  street,  when  the  woman  was  weeping  and 
being  comforted  by  the  young  man;  whom,  as  it  afterward 
appeared,  she  revered  as  her  savior  and  friend.  Eleanor, 
learning  that  Dr.  Green  is  her  father,  accuses  him  of  cruelty 
to  her  mother,  and  refuses  his  aid  in  life,  declaring  that  she 
will  go  out  into  the  world  to  "teach  or  something."  But 
Richard  has  other  views.  We  see  him  at  evening  seated  on  the 
bench  of  the  old  church  organ,  with  Eleanor  beside  him,  rolling 
out  a  fine  anthem  in  a  powerful  voice.  And  in  the  background 
we  see  his  mother  confiding  to  Miss  Thomasina  that  "She  is  a 
nice  girl,  and  will  make  Richard  an  excellent  wife."  And  in  the 
dusk  Miss  Thomasina  pores  over  a  document  that  the  mail 
has  just  brought  to  her  cottage,  telling  her  that  "The  admirers 
of  Basil  Everman  are  grateful  to  his  friend,  Miss  Thomasina 
Davis,  for  permission  to  quote  from  his  letters  to  her,  to  whom 
he  wrote  constantly  and  told  all  his  aspirations  and  plans." 
We  fade  out  on  the  gentle  spinster's  rapt  gaze  toward  the  hills, 
among  which  she  seems  to  see  the  spirit  of  Basil  hovering  over 
the  town  where  his  genius  was  never  known  until  she  helped  to 
give  him  his  posthumous  fame. 

Now  follows  a  synopsis  of  the  novel  "The  Women 
We  Marry,"  by  Arthur  Stanwood  Pier,  which  the 
publisher  has  kindly  given  us  permission  to  use. 


136  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

BRIEF  SYNOPSIS 

GEORGE  BRANDON,  returning  home  to  Boston,  after  six 
months'  wandering  in  Brazil,  expects  to  take  up  relations  with 
Rosamond  Ramsay  where  he  has  left  off.  But  he  has  taken 
things  so  much  for  granted  that  he  has  not  written  to  her,  and 
he  has  the  shock  of  finding  her  upon  the  brink  of  marriage  with 
Graham  Rappelo,  with  whom  she  has  fallen  in  love  from  seeing 
his  wonderful  horsemanship  in  a  militia  parade.  He  goes  to 
the  wedding,  then,  disgusted  with  life,  resolves  to  work  his 
passage  over  to  Europe,  in  order  to  pass  the  time.  But  the 
foreman  of  the  cattle  ship  being  a  brute,  so  disgusts  him  that 
he  leaps  overboard  to  swim  back  to  Boston.  He  would  have 
made  it  but  for  the  fact  that  Rosamond  and  her  athlete  hus- 
band have  taken  passage  on  this  same  slow  steamer,  for  their 
wedding  trip,  and  Rappelo,  seeing  a  man  overboard,  leaps  to 
the  rescue  and  drags  George  back.  Mrs.  Vasmer  and  her 
daughter  Dorothy  are  also  among  the  cabin  passengers,  and 
when  Rosamond  vaunts  her  husband's  courage  in  saving  some 
unknown  man,  both  young  women  manage  to  get  a  sight  of 
George  and  recognize  him.  George,  who  is  a  very  fascinating 
fellow,  almost  regains  his  place  in  the  heart  of  Rosamond, 
because  she  is  feeling  that  singular  and  inevitable  revolt 
against  the  little  deceptions  of  married  life  which  make  young 
women  an  easy  prey  to  the  unmarried  lover.  They  both 
passionately  agree  that  a  terrible  mistake  has  been  made,  and 
George  falls  into  the  old  error  of  believing  that  "love  is  free," 
and  persuades  Rosamond  to  elope  on  her  very  wedding 
journey!  An  accident  foils  this  insane  plan.  Mrs.  Vasmer  gets 
a  cable  that  her  husband  is  undergoing  an  operation  for 
appendicitis;  almost  immediately  afterward,  when  Mr.  Vas- 
mer dies,  Rosamond  feels  that  she  must  stay  with  her  friends 
in  their  affliction  and  breaks  with  George.  Rosamond,  who  is 
at  heart  loyal,  although  temporarily  flighty,  greets  her  hus- 
band, who  opportunely  appears,  with  rapture,  and  George, 


WRITING  THE  BRIEF  SYNOPSIS        137 

disillusioned,  retires.  Now,  visiting  the  afflicted  Vasmers,  he 
turns  to  the  bewitching  Dorothy,  and  as  the  three  of  them  go 
back  home  on  the  same  steamer,  he  has  the  opportunity  to  be 
so  useful  and  nice  that  Dorothy  begins  to  love  him.  He  pro- 
poses, is  accepted,  and  again  in  Boston,  the  marriage  takes 
place.  The  young  pair  begin  housekeeping,  in  a  modest  house 
near  Dorothy's  old  palatial  home,  and  the  bride  soon  gets  into 
money  troubles,  from  which  her  rich  mother  extricates  her. 
George  is  proud  and  wishes  to  stand  alone,  but  is  obliged  to 
give  in  and  accept  aid  from  Mrs.  Vasmer.  Many  complications 
arise  through  Dorothy's  worldliness,  but  a  real  disaster  soon 
comes,  when  she  makes  the  acquaintance  of  a  young,  ambi- 
tious, and  singularly  simple-minded  writer  and  dramatist, 
Sidney  Hanford.  He  reads  his  efforts  to  Dorothy,  who  criti- 
cises and  helps  him.  George  sees  the  intimacy  without  mis- 
givings, loyally  trusting  his  wife.  But  passion  flames  out  in  the 
hearts  of  the  two  congenial  spirits,  and  the  day  comes  when 
Dorothy  bitterly  regrets  her  marriage.  Sidney  reveals  his  love 
for  her  and  she  is  conventional  enough  to  refuse  to  let  it  go  on; 
but  bids  him  go  to  New  York  to  work.  She  writes  to  him  and 
continues  to  help  him  in  his  work,  taking  immense  pride  in 
him  when  he  scores  a  triumph  on  the  first  night  of  the  play  she 
has  criticised  in  the  writing.  Dorothy  has  a  baby  and  is 
annoyed  at  its  fretfulness;  George  is  disappointed  in  her,  but 
is  patient.  But  now  the  young  wife  locks  her  door,  and  throws 
herself  into  the  fashion  vortex.  Mrs.  Vasmer's  death  leaves 
Dorothy  an  heiress,  and  as  soon  as  the  period  of  mourning  is 
over  she  becomes  thoroughly  emancipated  from  domestic 
duties,  takes  long  trips,  and  often  meets  Sidney.  George  sud- 
denly realizes  the  meaning  of  her  estrangement  and  writes  a 
note  to  warn  Sidney  off.  But  this  only  makes  things  worse. 
Dorothy  and  Sidney  cast  aside  all  discretion,  and  openly  seek 
each  other's  society  everywhere.  They  agree  to  go  away  to- 
gether, but  on  the  very  day  a  frightful  accident  smites  down 
Rappelo,  and  Dorothy  now  repeats  the  experience  fate  once 


138  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

before  meted  out  to  Rosamond;  as  Rosamond  broke  off  a 
delirious  folly  to  go  to  her  friend,  so  Dorothy  puts  off  Sidney 
to  fly  to  Rosamond.  Sidney  fears  that  it  is  the  end  of  things 
for  him,  but  she  says  that  their  elopement  is  only  postponed. 
But  George  has  been  summoned  to  attend  Rappelo,  and  by 
the  exertion  of  marvellous  skill  saves  his  life.  In  this  atmos- 
phere of  heroic  endurance,  of  tenderness,  and  of  children's 
needs  and  innocent  clinging  to  her,  Dorothy's  shallow  selfish- 
ness drops  off  and  she  rises  to  the  height  of  her  better  nature. 
We  see  the  end  of  the  story  in  a  reconciliation  between  her  and 
her  patient  husband  and  the  uplift  of  a  divine  thought  on  both 
faces,  as  they  pace  the  walks  of  the  old  garden,  where  the 
flowers  lift  up  their  faces  to  shine  on  them,  in  the  glow  of  the 
setting  sun. 

Here  follows  the  brief  synopsis  of  the  0.  Henry 
story  "Telemachus,  Friend,"  of  which  I  give  the 
continuity  in  the  following  chapter.  This  synopsis 
was  made  by  the  Vitagraph  Company,  producers 
of  the  story. 

SYNOPSIS 

THE  narrator,  a  "city  feller,"  returning  from  a  hunting  trip, 
during  the  hour  he  has  to  wait  in  Los  Pifios  discovers  that 
Telemachus  Hicks,  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  is  reading  the 
story  of  David  and  Jonathan  of  the  Bible,  and  also  that  he, 
Telemachus,  is  rather  sensitive  about  his  "cauliflower"  ear. 
The  "city  feller"  concludes  that  from  these  details  appends  a 
tale,  and  he  is  not  disappointed. 

Telemachus  had  a  friend  as  was  a  friend,  and  his  name  was 
Paisley  Fish.  So  wedded  were  these  two  simple  men  in  all 
affairs  of  their  shiftless,  harum-scarum  lives,  that  when,  lean 
and  hungry  for  ease  and  pleasure,  they  rode  into  Los  Pinos  and 
took  their  "eats"  from  the  cushioned  hands  of  the  Widow 


WRITING  THE  BRIEF  SYNOPSIS       139 

Jessup,  that  280  pound  —  I  mean  carat — jewel  of  perfection, 
they  resolved  that  in  love  their  friendship  should  not  be 
divided.  Neither  would  take  covert  advantage  of  the  other, 
neither  should  whisper  soft  words  to  the  widow  except  in  the 
presence  of  the  other;  with  the  Widow  seated  between  them 
each  one  should  play  the  game  hi  the  eyes  of  his  friend. 

But  no  two  men  are  equals  in  love.  From  the  start  Telem- 
achus  had  the  winning  advantage.  He  knew  the  secret  art 
of  stealing  a  woman's  hand  and  keeping  it.  While  poor  simple 
Paisley  dragged  farther  and  farther  in  the  rear  droning  his 
long,  lugubrious  narratives,  tormented  by  the  audible  delights 
enjoyed  at  the  other  end  of  the  bench. 

And  Telemachus,  in  his  fashion,  was  faithful  to  his  friend. 
Never  did  he  take  a  kiss  or  a  hug  or  offer  or  receive  a  lover's 
vow  until  Paisley  had  arrived.  These  delays  annoyed  the  none 
too  placid  disposition  of  Mrs.  Jessup,  and  but  that  she  was  wise 
enough  to  deduce  that  so  faithful  a  friend  must  be  a  sterl- 
ing husband  in  the  making,  she  would  have  sent  them  both 
packing. 

Up  to  the  very  trenches  did  their  friendship  endure.  At  the 
altar  did  not  Telemachus  hold  up  the  minister  until  Paisley 
had  swiped  a  boiled  shirt  from  the  store  that  had  closed  for  the 
wedding  day,  and  had  joined  the  party  properly  clothed? 
But  it  was  one  wait  too  many  even  for  the  stout  back  of  Mrs. 
Jessup  when,  the  bridal  night,  and  the  chaste  couch  ready, 
Lem  should  sit  out  on  the  steps,  "Waiting  for  old  Paisley." 

Thus  the  "cauliflower"  ear! 


CHAPTER  XIV 
CONTINUITY  AND  SCENE  PLOT 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY 

Directed  by  HENRY-HOURY 

Scenario  by  ROBERT  A.  SANBORN 

"  Telemachus,  Friend  " 

An  O.  Henry  Story 

NOTE:  The  Model  Photoplay  which  follows  here  is  reprinted 
by  the  courtesy  of  the  Vitagraph  Company  of  America.  It  is 
the  actual  working  scenario  from  which  the  Vitagraph  Pic- 
ture "Telemachus,  Friend"  was  made.  Presented  February  21, 
1919. 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  143 


TELEMACHUS,  FRIEND 

CAST 

TELEMACHUS  HICKS 
PAISLEY  FISH,  his  friend 
THE  WIDOW  JESSUP 
NARRATOR  OF  STORY 
INCIDENTAL  CHARACTERS 

SCENE  PLOT 

EXTERIORS 

LOOKING  OFF  PORCH  OF  HOTEL,  Los  PINOS 

1-15-22-28-28-33-44-59-77-78 

STREET  LOOKING  TOWARD  SAME 16-55 

METHODIST  CHURCH,  SAME  TOWN 58-60-67 

DRY  GOODS  STORE 62 

REAR  OF  SAME 64 

FREIGHT  YARD,  OPPOSITE  HOTEL 20-21-29 

SALOON  IN  SAME 9 

BENCH  UNDER  TREES  IN  REAR  OF  HOTEL 

32-34-39-41-45-46-47 

ALONG  RIVER  IN  GOLD  COUNTRY 4 

ROAD  BETWEEN  RANCHES 5-8 

IN  PRUNE  OR  ORANGE  ORCHARD 14 

STEPS  OF  SMALL  COTTAGE 71-73-75-76 

DEEP  WOODS 23 

CAVE  IN  SAME 24 

INTERIORS 

WESTERN  SALOON 10-40-42-57-59 

DINING  ROOM  IN  Los  PINOS  HOTEL 17-18-19-30-70 

BEDROOM  IN  SAME .  .31-48-54-56 


144  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

HOTEL  OFFICE  IN  SAME 33-35-37-53-61 

MRS.  JESSUP'S  ROOM  IN  SAME 49-51 

HALL  OUTSIDE 50-52 

ROOM  IN  CITY  HOTEL 25-27 

HALL  OUTSIDE  SAME 26 

METHODIST  CHURCH 63-66-68 

DRY  GOODS  STORE 65 

COTTAGE  BEDROOM 72-74 

INSERTS  AND  STILL  LIFE 

PAGE  OF  BIBLE,  OPEN  TO  IST  SAMUEL,  CH.  18,  VERSES  1-5 

INSERT  SCENE  1-3  — 

OWL  IN  WOODS INSERT  SCENE  32 

STREAM  IN  WOODS  —  NIGHT INSERT  SCENE  32 

PILE  OF  TOMATO  CANS  THROWN  ON  DUMP  NEAR  R.R.  —  NIGHT 

INSERT  SCENE  32 

CAT  EATING  AT  SAME  —  NIGHT INSERT  SCENE  32 

SHELF  OF  BOOKS  IN  HOTEL  OFFICE INSERT  SCENE  36 

PAGE  OF  "OTHELLO"  IN  ONE  VOLUME  SHAKESPERE 

INSERT  SCENE  36 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  145 

TELEMACHUS,  FRIEND 

BY 

O.  HENRY 

SCENE  PLOT 

SUB-TITLE:  THE  SUMMIT  HOUSE  IN  Los  PINOS,  NEW  MEXICO, 
LAY  ROASTING  ON  THE  DESERT  ALKALI,  AND 
TELEMACHUS  HICKS,  ITS  PROPRIETOR  — 

CLOSE  UP  1  EXTERIOR.  Looking  off  the  porch  of  the  hotel, 
across  the  blistering  hot  plaza  to  the  R.R.  Sta- 
tion, a  desolate  place  with  but  little  life  or  mo- 
tion at  this  time  of  day,  or  ever.  A  few  freight 
cars  sidetracked,  a  few  horses  hitched  to  the 
rail  in  front  of  hotel. 

NOTE.  (It  does  not  particularly  matter  wheth- 
er this  is  taken  in  a  mountain  or  desert  coun- 
try. In  one  passage  O.  Henry  refers  to  the  San 
Andres  Mountains,  as  surrounding  the  town. 
I  put  the  location  on  the  desert  just  to  throw 
an  ironic  touch  on  the  name  of  the  hotel.) 

OPEN  DIAPHRAGM  SLOWLY  TO  SHOW 
In  immediate  foreground,  close  up,  sits  Hicks, 
his  back  to  camera,  his  face  three  quarters 
turned  so  features  are  visible.  He  is  reading 
the  Bible,  his  feet  resting  on  the  porch  rail. 
His  forefinger  follows  the  text  slowly,  pain- 
fully. Immediately  at  his  right  hand  shadow: 
CUT  OFF,  so  as  not  to  show  the  Narrator  of 
story  who  is  approaching  stealthily  at  Hicks's 
right  hand.  As  Hicks  reads,  he  is  completely 


146  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

absorbed,  and  shows  signs  of  deep  and  tender 
feeling.  He  wags  his  head  sadly,  his  shoulders 
heave  slightly  as  with  sobs,  he  sighs  over  his 
lost  friend,  now  and  then  his  hand  goes  up  to 
his  eyes,  and  brushes  away  tears.  The  text  of 
passage  he  is  reading  is  hardly  discernible. 
After  a  moment  of  this  comedy-pathos,  FADE 

INTO 

INSERT:  Close  up  of  open  BIBLE,  at  I  SAMUEL,  Chap- 

ter 18,  first  four  verses,  Hicks's  gnarled  fore- 
finger painfully  following  the  words,  describing 
JONATHAN'S  devotion  to  DAVID. 

BACK  TO  Hicks  finishing  the  passage,  lowers  Bible  on 

CLOSE  UP  1  knees,  and  looks  off  over  the  heated  desert. 
Then  with  a  sudden  start,  he  dodges  to  left,  as 
though  expecting  some  one  approaching  at  his 
right  to  deal  him  a  blow.  His  dodge  throws 
him  into  a  crouching  position  in  his  chair,  at 
the  same  time  he  flings  up  his  right  hand  and 
claps  it  over  his  right  ear.  After  an  instant  in 
this  position,  as  the  expected  blow  does  not 
fall,  Hicks  relaxes,  and  turns  his  face  slightly 
to  his  right,  and  looks  up  to  see  who  it  is. 

TURN  CAMERA  TO  RIGHT  TO  TAKE  IN 
Narrator  of  story  (O.  Henry,  or  not)  who 
stands  in  smiling  perplexity  at  Hicks's  right 
and  rear,  having  come  up  on  tip-toe  to  see 
what  Hicks  is  reading.  Narrator  is  dressed  as 
"city  feller"  out  on  a  hunting  trip,  now  return- 
ing. He  has  a  gun  or  two  in  cases,  some  bags, 
overcoat  on  arm,  etc. 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  147 

As  Hicks  sees  who  it  is,  he  grins  sheepishly, 
drops  his  hand  from  ear,  and  straightens  in 
chair,  saying  "Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  Sit  down." 
And  he  indicates  a  chair  beside  him.  Narrator 
sits  down,  placing  bags  and  guns  near  him, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  maimed  ear,  still  showing 
a  puzzled  interest  in  the  ear  and  in  why  Hicks 
started  so  abruptly  and  defensively.  As  he 
sits  he  smiles  over  incident,  and  turning  to 
Hicks,  asks: 

INSERT:  "MR.  HICKS,  I'VE  GOT  AN  HOUR  BEFORE  A  TRAIN 

RELIEVES   ME    OF   Los   PlftOS.     WOULD   IT    BE   TOO 

DISAGREEABLE  TO  YOU  TO  TELL  ME  WHAT  KIND  OF 
AN  ANIMAL  CLAWED  THOSE  IMPROVEMENTS  INTO 
YOUR  EAR?  " 

BACK  TO  Hicks  looks  at  the  Narrator,  but  in  not  un- 

CLOSE  UP  1  friendly  way,  and  indicating  his  ear,  asks, 
"What,  this?" 

CLOSE  UP  2  Hicks's  right  ear  which  is  badly  deformed  as 
though  it  had  been  partly  torn  off  and  not 
skillfully  put  back  in  place,  bunches  of  carti- 
lage grown  out,  etc.  Hicks's  hand  feels  of  the 
ear,  questioningly. 

CLOSE  UP  3      SAME  AS  1 

The  Narrator  answers,  "  Yes,  that  is  what  he 
means."  Hicks  thinks  a  moment,  then  replies 
frankly : 

INSERT:  "THAT  EAR,"  SAID  HICKS,  "is  THE  RELIC  OF  TRUE 
FRIENDSHIP." 

BACK  TO  To  illustrate  his  point,  Hicks  indicates  the 

CLOSE  UP  3  passage  in  the  Bible,  which  he  holds  so  that 
Narrator  can  read  it; 


148 


SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 


REPEAT  INSERT  OF  OPEN  BIBLE,  if  thought 
necessary. 

Narrator  reads,  but  still  looks  puzzled,  waiting 
for  Hicks  to  tell  the  story  that  will  connect  the 
text,  the  dodge,  and  the  maimed  ear.  Hicks 
begins  slowly,  saying: 

INSERT:  "WELL,  I  HAD  A  FRIEND  LIKE  THAT  ONCE,  AND  HIS 
ENTITLEMENT  WAS  PAISLEY  FISH.  SIDE  BY  SIDE 
FOR  SEVEN  YEARS  WE  — " 

BACK  TO  Hicks  begins  his  yarn,  the  Narrator,  lighting  a 

CLOSE  UP  3       cigar,  and  leaning  forward  to  listen,  as  Hicks 
speaks  very  low.  FADE  OUT  AND  INTO 

SCENE  4  EXTERIOR.    Camp  along  a  stream  in  gold 

country. 

Hicks  and  Fish  are  squatting  on  ground  at 
mess,  cleaning  up  the  last  of  their  grub.  Both 
are  still  hungry,  they  eye  the  last  biscuit,  and 
fragments  in  frying  pan,  and  after  trying  to 
force  the  remnants  on  each  other,  they  scrupu- 
lously divide,  and  are  still  hungry.  They  rise 
to  ransack  their  provisions  and  find  they  are 
down  to  the  last  crumb.  Discuss  what  they 
had  best  do,  they  look  over  the  gold  they  have 
panned  and  find  it  very  slight  for  all  their 
work.  They  cheer  each  other  up,  and  decide 
to  go  on  to  where  they  can  get  a  square  meal. 
They  begin  to  break  camp.  DIAPHRAGM 

DOWN  AND  OUT.    OPEN  TO 

SCENE  5  EXTERIOR.  Along  road  hi  ranching  country. 

A  rancher  is  working  in  his  field  when  Hicks 
and  Fish  walk  up,  leading  a  mule  with  their 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY 


149 


packs.  They  stop  and  strike  the  rancher  for  a 
job.  He  indicates  that  they  can  join  his  sheep 
camp  up  in  the  hills.  They  agree  to  his  terms, 
he  points  out  direction,  and  they  start  off. 

SCENE  6  EXTERIOR.  A  sheep  camp  hi  the  hills.  EVE- 

NING. 

A  bunch  of  herders  are  out  smoking  after  sup- 
per. They  see  Hicks  and  Fish  approaching, 
make  jokes  about  them.  The  two  men  join 
the  party,  inform  leader  that  they  have  come 
to  take  a  job.  They  have  to  take  a  job.  He 
looks  them  over  and  gives  them  food  which 
they  are  to  take  along  with  them  to  their 
posts.  He  sends  a  guide  along  with  them,  and 
they  start  off. 

SCENE  7  EXTERIOR.  Up  in  the  hills.  NIGHT. 

Hicks  and  Fish  are  on  watch  over  a  band  of 
sheep,  which  may  be  seen  lying  about,  or 
feeding.  They  are  lonesome,  huddled  to- 
gether, trying  to  keep  each  other's  spirits  up. 
The  coyotes  howl,  it  is  desolate,  and  neither 
of  them  likes  the  job,  vowing  they  will  give  it 
up  in  the  morning  and  go  down  to  town.  They 
express  their  disgust  for  sheep  and  toss  stones 
at  them  irritably.  FADE  OUT. 

SCENE  8  EXTERIOR.  Same  as  5,  but  near  to  gate  in  the 

fence. 

Hicks  and  Fish  come  down  the  lane  with  their 
mule,  waving  goodbye  to  the  rancher,  pock- 
eting the  money  he  has  paid  them  off  with.  At 


ISO  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

the  gate  they  stop,  one  has  tobacco  but  no 
papers;  he  borrows  a  paper  of  the  other,  gives 
him  tobacco  in  exchange;  they  search  pockets 
for  matches  and  find  just  one.  They  light  up 
and  go  off  down  road,  glad  to  get  away. 

SCENE  9  EXTERIOR.  Front  of  saloon  in  small  Western 

town. 

Hicks  and  Fish  come  up,  their  mouths  water- 
ing, rubbing  their  hands  in  prospect.  Each 
invites  the  other  in  to  have  a  drink;  they  en- 
ter, arms  about  each  other. 

SCENE  10          INTERIOR.  A  rough  Western  bar. 

Two  or  three  cowboys  are  drinking.  There  is 
some  more  or  less  rough  badinage  between  the 
two  sheepmen  and  the  cowboys,  but  the  latter, 
finding  that  Hicks  and  Fish  are  quite  ready  to 
back  each  other  up,  let  up  on  them.  A  drum- 
mer who  is  hanging  around  takes  a  liking  to 
Hicks  and  Fish,  and  gets  acquainted,  buys 
them  drinks,  and  shows  them  the  patent  churn 
he  is  travelling  with.  He  offers  to  let  them  try 
selling  it,  they  are  quick  to  grasp  its  advan- 
tages and  like  the  proposition.  The  cowboys 
go  out  laughing  at  them.  As  they  listen  to 
the  drummer  explain  his  churn,  DIAPHRAGM 

DOWN  AND  OUT  AND  INTO 

SCENE  11  EXTERIOR.  A  rancher's  yard. 

Hicks  and  Fish  are  displaying  their  churn  to 
the  farmer's  wife,  her  daughters,  and  children, 
all  much  diverted  by  the  article  and  by  the 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  151 

clever  patter  of  the  men.  One  of  them  offers  to 
take  pictures  of  the  children,  and  lines  them 
up  in  front  of  a  camera  which  he  gets  from 
his  pack.  They  are  unable  to  sell  a  churn  and 
profits  have  been  scarce.  So  while  one  holds 
the  attention  of  the  women  and  children,  the 
other  slips  around  the  house. 

SCENE  12          EXTERIOR.  A  chicken  house  on  same  ranch. 

Hicks  or  Fish  slips  in,  and  pilfers  a  hen  from 
the  yard,  but  as  he  does  so  a  farm  hand  comes 
around  corner  and  catches  him.  Hicks  drops 
the  hen  and  runs  around  corner  for  his  partner. 

SCENE  13          EXTERIOR.  Same  as  11. 

The  two  men  make  a  hurried  getaway,  there 
is  a  half  hearted  chase,  and  the  two  men  es- 
cape. FADE  OUT  TO 

SCENE  14          EXTERIOR.  In  a  prune  orchard  or  orange. 

The  two  friends  up  in  the  tree,  picking,  fairly 
close  up.  They  are  eating  about  as  many  as 
they  pick  and  enjoying  themselves  hugely. 
As  they  exchange  juicy  fruits,  and  eat  with 
blissful  smiles,  DIAPHRAGM  DOWN  AND  OUT 

AND  BACK  TO 

CLOSE  UP  15     EXTERIOR.  Same  as  1, 

Hicks  is  sighing  regretfully  over  those  happy 
days,  Narrator  smoking  with  one  eye  on  the 
railroad  and  another  occasionally  cast  at  his 
watch.  Hicks  says: 


152  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

INSERT:  "THINKS  I,"  SAYS  HICKS,  "NEITHER  HOMICIDE  NOR 
FLATTERY  NOR  RICHES  NOR  DRINK  CAN  MAKE 
TROUBLE  BETWEEN  ME  AND  PAISLEY  FISH.  BUT 
ONE  SUMMER  ME  AND  PAISLEY  GALLOPS  DOWN  TO 
THIS  TOWN  IN  PURSUIT  OF  SURCEASE  AND  LEVITY." 

BACK  TO  Hicks  indicates  how  they  galloped  down  the 

CLOSE  UP  15     main  street,  full  of  easy  money,  brave  and 

light  hearted,  and  up  to  the  hotel.  As  he  talks 

DIAPHRAGM  DOWN  AND  INTO 

SCENE  16          EXTERIOR.  Evening,  looking  toward  the  hotel 
from  up  the  street. 

Hicks  and  Fish  ride  in,  pull  up,  admire  the 
town  a  moment,  then  spy  the  hotel,  and  with 
great  enthusiasm  for  the  "eats"  they  ride  on 
at  a  gallop,  are  seen  to  pull  up  hi  front  of  hotel 
in  distance.  They  hitch  up  as  two  or  three 
travelling  men  run  out  of  hotel  for  railroad 
station  opposite.  Hicks  and  Fish  enter  hotel. 

SCENE  17          INTERIOR.     Dining-room    hi    small   Western 
Hotel.  EVENING.  LAMPS  LIT. 

The  Widow  Jessup  is  getting  rid  of  the  last  of  a 
party  of  travelling  men.  She  is  hot  and  at  the 
end  of  her  patience;  they  have  been  jolly  ing 
her  unmercifully,  enjoying  provoking  her  to 
temper.  She  is  flushed  and  belligerent,  fling- 
ing back  some  pretty  strong  language  at  them, 
which  only  makes  them  laugh  the  louder.  As 
they  exit,  leaving  a  few  last  shots  behind  them, 
she  picks  up  a  cup  or  something  and  throws  it. 
Her  expression  changes  from  anger  to  dismay, 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY 


153 


as  she  sees  Hicks  and  Fish  coming  down  the 
hall,  and  seeing  in  them  possible  prey  for  her 
matrimonial  net  she  changes  her  tactics,  drops 
the  drummers  from  her  mind,  and  hurriedly 
exits  into  kitchen  to  prepare  for  these  prospec- 
tive victims.  As  she  disappears  Hicks  and 
Fish  enter,  one  of  them  having  a  piece  of 
the  broken  cup  in  his  hand,  and  both  looking 
cautiously  around  for  the  one  who  hurled  it. 
They  stop  in  doorway,  cautiously,  but  smell- 
ing the  frying  smells  from  kitchen,  begin  to 
smile,  and  growing  bolder,  they  enter,  sit 
down  at  table,  pry  up  their  plates  (with  a 
knife)  from  the  red  oilcloth.  Hicks  conceals 
the  piece  of  broken  cup  from  the  Widow. 
(Business  here  of  prying  of  plates  from  oil- 
cloth.) Begin  a  study  of  the  bill  of  fare.  They 
give  cautious  glances  from  time  to  time  toward 
the  kitchen.  Hicks  still  has  the  piece  of  cup 
which  he  lays  down  on  table.  They  are  like 
two  kids  over  the  crude  delights  of  the  bill  of 
fare.  NOTE:  MIGHT  CLOSE  UP  BILL  OF  FARE. 

CLOSE  UP  18     INTERIOR.  Of  door  between  kitchen  and  din- 
ing room. 

The  Widow  appears  in  doorway,  bearing  a  big 
plate  of  delicious  looking  biscuit,  a  big  oily 
smile  on  her  face,  tempting  and  more  than  a 
mouthful.  The  two  men  are  seen  in  distance, 
heads  together  over  bill  of  fare.  She  coughs 
and  looks  shy  as  their  heads  turn  to  her. 

SuB-TlTLE:  *'NOW  THERE  WAS  A  WOMAN  THAT  WOULD  HAVE 

TEMPTED  AN  ANCHOVY  TO  FORGET  HIS  Vows. 


154  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

SHE  WAS  NOT  so  SMALL  AS  SHE  WAS  LARGE; 
AND  A  KIND  OF  WELCOME  AIR  SEEMED  TO  MITI- 
GATE HER  VICINITY." 

SCENE  19          INTERIOR.    Same  as  17.    Fairly  close  up  to 
table. 

The  Widow  is  coming  up  to  table,  conscious 
of  her  power,  both  these  thin,  hungry,  lonely 
men  feasting  their  tired  eyes  upon  her  buxom 
figure  and  beaming  face  and  superlative  bis- 
cuits. She  sets  latter  down  on  table,  and 
stands  arms  akimbo  waiting  pleasantly  for 
their  order.  They  are  so  fussed  that  they  get 
balled  up  over  the  bill  of  fare,  stuttering  and 
choking,  so  that  she  comes  to  their  rescue, 
saying  that  she  has  just  what  they  want, 
makes  a  playful  pass  at  closing  their  mouths, 
and  with  an  arch  smile  retires  to  kitchen. 
Left  alone  the  two  men  follow  her  with  their 
eyes,  then  with  a  hostility  that  they  have 
never  known  between  them  before,  but  that  is 
growing  now,  partly  to  their  shame  and  regret, 
they  turn  to  each  other.  The  Widow  returns 
promptly,  bearing  a  great  platter  of  fried  liver 
and  potatoes,  and  their  eyes  flash  back  to  her 
with  jerks,  as  she  serves  them.  Shyly  they 
stuff  their  mouths,  she  standing  by,  entertain- 
ing them  with  a  "lot  of  garrulousness  about 
the  climate  and  history  and  Tennyson  and 
prunes  and  the  scarcity  of  mutton,  and  finally 
wants  to  know  where  we  came  from."  Both 
men  raise  their  eyes  to  answer  as  she  leans 
down  encouragingly.  Fish  has  his  mouth 
full: 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  155 

INSERT:  "* SPRING  VALLEY,'  SAYS  I." 

"'BiG  SPRING  VALLEY,'  CHIPS  IN  PAISLEY." 

BACK  TO  BUT  CLOSE  UP  of  Paisley. 

SCENE  19  His  mouth  stuffed  full  as  he  pronounces  his 
words.  TURN  TO 

CLOSE  UP  of  Hicks.  As  Fish  corrects  him, 
Hicks's  eyes  glare  his  disapproval.  CUT  TO 

CLOSE  UP  of  Widow,  as  the  two  men  glare  at 
each  other,  she  smiles  to  herself,  winking, 
knowing  now  she  has  got  one  or  the  other. 

INSERT:  "I  KNOWED  THEN  THAT  THE  OLD  FAITHFUL  DIO- 
GENES BUSINESS  BETWEEN  ME  AND  PAISLEY  FISH 
WAS  ENDED  FOREVER.  DARN  HIM,  I  HEARD  HIM 
CALL  IT  *  SPRING  VALLEY'  A  THOUSAND  TIMES." 

BACK  TO  Hicks  is  glaring  at  Fish,  who  chokes  over  his 

SCENE  19  mouthful,  unable  to  bear  the  situation  any 
longer,  feeling  the  just  reproach  of  his  friend, 
determined  to  win  the  Widow  if  he  can  for  him- 
self, too  shy  to  look  up  at  her.  Fish  pats  him- 
self on  the  back,  the  Widow  comes  to  his  help. 
Hicks  rises  and  goes  to  Fish,  hits  him  a  terrific 
swat  on  the  back.  Fish  coughs  up  half  his  lunch, 
and  much  humiliated,  rushes  out  of  the  room 
with  his  napkin  over  his  mouth.  For  a  moment 
Hicks  and  the  Widow  look  at  each  other,  then 
Hicks's  eyes  drop  shyly,  he  tries  to  utter  an 
apology  for  his  friend,  then  he  excuses  himself. 

INSERT  :  "  I  RECKON,  MA  —  MA  —  MAM,  I  'D  BE  —  BET  — 
BETTER  S  —  S  —  SEE  WHAT'S  HAPP  —  HAPPENED  TO 
PA  —PAISLEY." 


156  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

BACK  TO  Hicks  rushes  from  the  room,  and  left  alone, 

SCENE  19  the  Widow  blushes  happily  to  herself,  then 
recollects  that  neither  of  them  has  paid,  her 
brows  knit  angrily,  then  she  smiles  to  herself, 
knowing  they  will  be  back,  and  laughing 
heartily,  she  begins  to  clear  the  table,  singing. 

SCENE  20  EXTERIOR.  NIGHT.  Along  tracks  in  railroad 
yard,  or  on  the  main  line. 

Fish  is  sitting  on  the  track,  in  far  distance,  hard 
to  see  hi  the  dusk.  Into  foreground  comes 
Hicks  looking  for  his  friend.  He  raises  his  voice 
and  calls,  "Paisley!"  He  is  a  little  anxious 
about  his  friend,  listens  and  looks  about. 

CLOSE  UP  21     Same  as  20,  only  close  up  to  Fish  on  track. 

Fish  is  sitting  on  the  track  hi  the  dusk,  hacking 
at  a  railroad  tie  with  pocket  knife,  savagely. 
When  he  hears  Hicks  call,  he  looks  up  and 
answers  shortly.  Hicks  is  seen  in  distance,  he 
comes  toward  Fish  and  looks  down  on  him 
with  hostility.  Finally  he  sits  down  alongside. 
Fish  still  has  his  knife  in  hand,  open,  as  Hicks 
sits  down,  and  they  stare  at  each  other,  more 
or  less  helplessly,  at  the  parting  of  the  way  be- 
tween the  new  life  and  the  old,  half  regretting 
the  old.  Hicks's  eyes  glance  down  at  knife,  he 
takes  it  gently  from  Fish's  relaxing  grip,  his 
eyes  on  Fish.  He  closes  the  knife  and  hands 
back  to  Fish,  who  slips  it  into  his  pocket,  their 
eyes  all  the  time  on  each  other.  Hicks  then 
raises  his  hand  and  drops  it  on  Fish's  shoul- 
der. As  he  does  so,  DIAPHRAGM  DOWN  AND 

OUT  AND  OPEN  TO 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  157 

CLOSE  UP  22    EXTERIOR.  Same  as  1. 

In  an  apparently  continuous  motion  with  ac- 
tion at  end  of  preceding  scene,  Hicks  drops  his 
hand  on  shoulder  of  the  Narrator,  leaning  for- 
ward and  staring  into  his  eyes  as  he  had  into 
Fish's  asking  Narrator: 

SUB-TITLE:  "MISTER,"  SAYS  HICKS,  "WHAT  is  FRIENDSHIP 

BETWEEN  MAN  AND    MAN?    IT  IS   AN  ANCIENT 

HISTORICAL   VIRTUE   ENACTED   IN   THE   DAY 

WHEN    MAN   HAD    TO    DODGE   FLYING   TURTLES 
AND—" 

SCENE  23         EXTERIOR.  A  dark  wood. 

This  scene  requires  a  monster  of  prehistoric 
times.  If  this  cannot  be  managed,  use  a  lion  or 
an  elephant,  preferably  roaring.  But  if  possi- 
ble rig  up  at  least  the  long  neck  and  ugly  head 
of  a  Plesiosaurus  to  appear  thrust  high  up 
through  the  foliage  of  the  trees  as  a  primitive 
man  runs  into  scene  away  from  beast,  falls 
and  covers  his  face  expecting  to  be  eaten, 
screaming  at  top  of  voice.  Into  the  scene  from 
opposite  direction,  that  is,  from  foreground, 
runs  another  man  also  hi  skins.  He  grasps  the 
situation,  picks  up  a  huge  rock  or  wields  his 
war  club,  rushes  the  annual  and  drives  it 
away.  Then  returning,  he  picks  up  the  fallen 
man  who  at  first  resists,  thinking  his  rescuer 
is  the  animal,  and  bears  him  away. 

SCENE  24         EXTERIOR.  Mouth  of  cave  in  woods. 

The  rescuer  brings  hi  his  friend  and  lays  him 
down  on  his  back,  gives  him  water;  the  man 


158  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

sits  up  (Chaplin  fashion),  sees  that  he  is  safe, 
takes  the  other  man's  face  between  his  hands, 
and  with  a  broad,  happy  smile,  kisses  him  on 
cheeks;  they  embrace,  fast  friends. 

SUB-TITLE:  "AND,"  HICKS  CONTINUES,  "MEN  HAS  KEPT  UP 
TO  THIS  DAY  THE  HABIT  OF  STICKING  BY  EACH 
OTHER—" 

SCENE  25          INTERIOR.  Dark  —  of  hotel  room. 

In  the  dusk  a  single  man  is  seen  flying  about 
the  room  in  terror,  warding  off  rushes  of 
imaginary  animal,  thro  whig  things,  when  door 
opens  and  another  man  reels  in,  letting  hi  light 
from  hall.  After  a  moment  he  lights  gas  in 
room  and  finds  his  friend,  cowering  on  floor  by 
bed.  Both  are  drunk,  but  the  first  one  is  in 
worse  shape,  of  seeing  things.  He  yells  as  his 
friend  arouses  him,  pointing  out  a  monster  in 
the  mirror.  His  friend,  ready  to  believe  his 
friend,  but  not  seeing  the  thing  himself,  as- 
sures his  friend  that  he  will  protect  him.  He 
fights  the  imaginary  animal,  at  last  picking  up 
an  ice  water  pitcher  and  hurling  it  at  the  mir- 
ror, then  comes  back  to  his  friend,  puts  his 
arm  about  him,  comforts  and  shields  him. 

SCENE  26          INTERIOR.  Corridor  in  hotel  outside  room. 

People  are  coming  out  of  rooms,  disturbed  and 
raging,  a  bell  boy  arrives  and  hears  their  com- 
plaints; he  knocks  at  door,  then  opens. 

SCENE  27          INTERIOR.  Same  as  25. 

The  bell  boy  enters,  asks  the  two  men  what  all 
this  noise  is  about.  The  first  one  only  whim- 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  159 

pers,  but  the  second  man  describes  his  valiant 
battle  and  defeat  of  the  beast,  pointing  out 
the  broken  mirror.  The  boy  replies  in  disgust: 

SUB-TITLE:  "On,  HELL,  THERE  AIN'T  NO  SUCH  ANIMILES! 
Go  TO  BED!" 

He  marches  up  to  the  men  and  leads  them  to 
the  bed,  pushes  them  over  upon  it,  where  they 
sprawl,  and  sleep.  Boy  then  puts  out  light  and 
exits. 

SCENE  28         EXTERIOR.  Same  as  1. 

Hicks  is  actively  describing  man's  fidelity  to 
his  friend,  through  combat  and  privation, 
stops  with  a  long  sigh,  saying: 

SUB-TITLE:  "BUT  FIGHTIN'  FOR  A  FRIEND  is  ONE  THING,  AND 
MAKIN'  LOVE  FOR  HIM  IB  ANOTHER.  IT  AIN'T  TO 
BE  DONE.  THE  SMILES  OF  WOMAN  DRAWS  AND 

DISMEMBERS  THE  CARCASE  OF  FRIENDSHIP." 

SCENE  29          EXTERIOR.  Same  as  20.  Fairly  close  up  to  the 
men. 

The  men  are  agreeing  to  differ,  to  make  each 
his  honest  open  fight  for  the  Widow,  their 
friendship  is  restored  but  on  a  new  basis.  They 
talk  and  nod  agreement.  Hicks  is  the  leader, 
he  makes  the  proposition  to  "let  the  best  man 
of  us  have  her.  I'll  play  you  the  square  game, 
etc." 

Fish  agrees  almost  tearfully.  They  rise  and 
shake  hands  formally  but  heartily  over  agree- 
ment, they  start  up  the  track  and  disappear 
around  a  freight  car. 


160  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

SCENE  30          INTERIOR.  Same  as  17.  Fairly  close  up  to  the 
table  where  the  two  men  sat. 

The  Widow,  masterfully,  is  making  up  her 
mind  which  one  of  the  men  she  is  going  after, 
which  one  is  easier.  She  ponders  a  moment, 
then  with  a  blush  and  a  shy  wriggle,  she  be- 
gins counting  on  the  two  plates  in  their  places 
for  breakfast,  "He  loves  me,  he  loves  me  not," 
plainly  so  her  lips  may  be  read.  Or  else,  she 
takes  up  the  plates  as  she  intones  the  words, 
rapping  each  plate  smartly  down  on  the  table, 
the  first  one  that  breaks  being  the  one,  as  she 
counts,  DIAPHRAGM  CLOSES  UP  TO  HER  HEAD, 
and  her  last  expression  is  one  of  triumph  and 
bliss  as  she  breaks  a  plate.  Might  cut  here  the 
piece  of  broken  plate  falling  to  floor.  Which 
one  cannot  be  told,  saying:  "He  loves  me!" 
She  curls  her  head  over  with  an  arch  expres- 
sion as  DIAPHRAGM  CLOSES. 

SCENE  31          INTERIOR.    A  hotel  room  in  Summit  House. 
DARK. 

Open  doors  and  light  enters,  also  the  two 
friends.  One  lights  up.  They  look  at  each 
other,  and  nod  confirmation  of  agreement. 
Fish  has  an  ache  between  shoulder  blades, 
takes  on  a  little.  Hicks  is  sympathetic,  gets 
his  bottle  of  "opodeldoc."  Fish  bares  his 
shoulders,  and  with  rough  tenderness  Hicks 
rubs  Fish  between  shoulder  blades.  FADE  OUT. 

SUB-TITLE:  "THINGS  HAPPENED  IN  A  SORT  OF  HURRY.    AT 
ONE  SIDE  OF  MRS.  JESSUP'S  EATIN'  HOUSE 

THERE  WAS  A  BENCH  — " 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY 


161 


SCENE  32  EXTERIOR.  The  bench  under  some  trees  in 
rear  of  hotel,  path  leading  up  from  bench  to 
hotel. 

Widow  is  about  sitting  down,  "a  fresh  pink 
dress  on  and  almost  cool  enough  to  handle." 
She  is  very  careful  to  arrange  her  dress  to  best 
advantage.  Self  conscious,  but  composed  and 
confident,  she  sits  there,  waiting  for  the  men. 
Soon  Hicks  appears  coming  down  the  path, 
more  or  less  spruced  up,  hair  slicked  down. 
He  stops  once  and  looks  about  to  see  if  Fish  is 
coming,  then  advances,  bows  elaborately  be- 
fore Widow,  asks  permission  to  sit,  which  she 
gives  graciously.  He  sits  down  a  proper  dis- 
tance from  Widow.  There  is  a  moment's  si- 
lence, she  waiting,  he  on  the  lookout  for  Fish, 
keeping  his  agreement  not  to  take  any  ad- 
vantage. She  wonders  what  he  is  waiting  for, 
and  looks  at  him  rather  peevishly.  He  clears 
his  throat  suddenly,  waves  his  hand  stiffly  at 
the  trees,  saying: 

SlJB-TlTLE:  "I  MAKE  A  FEW  SPECIFICATIONS  ABOUT  THE 
MORAL  SURFACE  OF  NATURE  AS  SET  FORTH  BY 
THE  LANDSCAPE  — " 

INSERT:  A.       EXTERIOR.  Deep  woods.  NIGHT. 

CLOSE  UP  of  an  owl,  blinking  or  hooting. 

INSERT  :  B.  EXTERIOR.  A  small  stream  rippling  and  shim- 
mering under  the  moonlight,  talking  to  itself. 

SUB-TITLE:  "AND  THE  WIND  OUT  OF  THE  MOUNTAINS  WAS 

SINGING  LIKE  A  JEW'S  HARP  IN  — " 


162  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

INSERT  :  C.  EXTERIOR.  CLOSE  UP  to  a  pile  of  empty  tomato 
cans,  thrown  down  beside  the  railroad  track. 
Have  the  loose  labels  fluttering  in  a  wind. 

BACK  TO  Hicks  is  sorely  tempted  by  the  contiguity  and 

SCENE  32  the  atmosphere  to  get  busy  before  Fish  ar- 
rives. He  wipes  his  brow,  controls  himself 
with  great  effort,  still  watching  for  his  friend. 
The  Widow,  waxing  amorous,  begins  to  edge 
closer  to  Hicks,  he  watching  her  apprehen- 
sively, but  with  a  heart  beating  riotously.  He 
stiffens  up,  feeling  "a  sensation  in  my  left  side, 
like  dough  rising  in  a  crock  by  the  fire."  She 
turns  to  him  and,  with  a  languishing  look, 
says:  "Oh,  Mr.  Hicks,  when  one  is  alone  hi  the 
world,  don't  they  feel  it  more  aggravated  on  a 
beautiful  night  like  this?"  Like  a  soldier  he 
looks  at  her  with  pathetic  reproach  and  rises 
to  his  feet,  saying  with  a  bow: 

SUB-TITLE:  "EXCUSE  ME,  MA'AM,"  SAYS  I,  "BUT  I'LL  HAVE 
TO  WAIT  TILL  PAISLEY  COMES  BEFORE  I  CAN 
GIVE  AUDIBLE  HEARING  TO  LEADING  QUES- 
TIONS LIKE  THAT/' 

She  looks  up  at  him,  her  temper  on  edge,  as  he 
explains  how  long  he  and  Paisley  have  been 
pals,  and  how  they  had  agreed  to  take  no  ad- 
vantage of  each  other  in  love,  then  she  throws 
back  her  head  and  lets  out  a  shout  of  laughter. 
Hicks  starts  with  the  sound  as  though  a  gun 
had  gone  off  behind  him : 

INSERT:  Scene,  same  as  Insert  C,  close  up  32. 

EXTERIOR.    Deep  woods.    NIGHT.    A  cat  eat- 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  163 

ing  something  on  ground,  starts  and  dashes 
away,  frightened. 

SCENE  33          INTERIOR.  Hotel  Office. 

Clerk  alone  in  office,  half  asleep,  when  he 
wakes  with  a  sudden  start,  and  looks  about  as 
though  he  had  been  called.  At  the  same  time 
Fish  wanders  in,  miserable,  impatient  to  see 
Widow,  but  at  a  loss  how  to  approach  her, 
not  possessing  Hicks's  savoir  faire.  The  clerk, 
seeing  no  one  else,  glares  at  poor  Fish,  saying 
belligerently: 

SUB-TITLE:  "WAS  THAT  YOU  LET  OUT  THAT  WAR  WHOOP?" 

Fish,  somewhat  bewildered,  shakes  his  head, 
confused,  and  the  clerk  goes  on,  asking  him 
what  he  wants  to  wake  a  fellow  up  for.  CUT  TO 

SCENE  34         EXTERIOR.  Same  as  32.  NIGHT. 

The  Widow  is  stifling  her  gusty  laughter  with  a 
pocket  handkerchief,  while  Hicks  stands  stu- 
pidly, ill  at  ease.  CUT  BACK  TO 

SCENE  35          INTERIOR.  Same  as  33. 

Fish,  scratching  his  head,  blurts  out  flat  he 
wants  to  see  a  book.  Clerk  asks  what  kind  of  a 
book.  Fish  wants  a  book  on  love,  but  is  afraid 
to  ask  specifically.  Clerk  rudely  directs  him  to 
a  small  bookcase.  Fish  wanders  toward  it. 
Clerk  with  a  sniff  and  a  shrug,  settles  down  for 
another  nap. 

SCENE  36          INTERIOR.  Same  as  33.  CLOSE  UP  to  a  shelf  of 
books,  odds  and  ends  of  titles,  that  have  been 


164  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

left  by  guests  and  picked  up  in  one  way  and 
another,  almanacs,  Bible,  a  complete  Shake- 
speare, a  few  popular  novels,  etc. 

Fish's  eyes  light  up  as  they  fall  on  the  Shake- 
speare, the  very  book  he  wants.  He  takes  it 
down  and  opens  it  to  "Othello,"  a  play  he  once 
saw  at  a  stock  theatre.  He  finds  a  familiar 
page,  reads  laboriously. 

INSERT:  A  PAGE  OF  "OTHELLO"  SHOWING  ONE  OF  THE  NOBLE 
MOOR'S  LONG  NARRATIVE  SPEECHES  TO  DESDE- 
MONA,  DESCRIBING  HIS  ADVENTUROUS  LlFE.  FlSH's 
FINGER  FOLLOWING  THE  SIGNIFICANT  WORDS: 

His  eyes  begin  to  shine,  his  imagination  absorbs 
the  resounding  eloquence,  he  assumes  a  heroism 
of  his  own.  He  too  is  a  grand  fellow,  he  has  lived 
an  adventurous  life,  and  with  his  experiences 
to  draw  on  he  can  win  the  hand  of  a  princess. 
He  reads  aloud,  louder  and  louder.  CUT  TO 

SCENE  37          INTERIOR.  Same  as  33.  Fish  in  distance,  clerk 
in  foreground. 

Clerk  is  disturbed  by  Fish's  ranting.  He  looks 
up  angrily,  and  yells  out  to  Fish,  who  does  not 
hear  at  first.  Clerk  repeats  his  shout,  and  Fish 
turns,  puts  up  the  book,  marches  over  to  the 
clerk,  his  eyes  afire,  and  towering  over  the  desk, 
thunders  out  a  few  polysyllabic  words  of  re- 
buke, rises  to  dignified  height  and  stalks  out, 
the  clerk  staring  after  him  with  open  mouth. 

CLOSE  UP  38    EXTERIOR.  Same  as  1. 

Hicks  leans  over  to  Narrator,  saying  that  the 
Widow's  giggling  was  getting  on  his  nerves. 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  165 

He  imitates  the  giggle,  putting  his  hand  to  his 
mouth  to  suppress  it  as  she  did,  then  he  grabs 
Narrator's  hand,  putting  his  face  close  to  his : 

SUB-TITLE:  "THEM  GIGGLES  WAS  BEGINNIN'  TO  STAMPEDE 
MY  HERD,  AND  FOR  A  MINUTE  MY  FRIENDSHIP 
FOR  PAISLEY  GETS  SUBSIDIZED." 

CLOSE  UP  39    EXTERIOR.  Same  as  32.  NIGHT. 

Hicks  has  sat  down  at  furthest  edge  of  bench, 
looking  stiff  and  stuffy.  The  Widow  casts  him 
a  languishing  glance  now  and  then,  and  burst- 
ing into  giggles  as  she  sees  his  solemn  face, 
which  giggles  she  chokes  with  her  handkerchief. 
Hicks  gets  hotter  and  hotter.  He  wriggles, 
until,  unable  to  stand  her  mirth  any  longer, 
he  leans  over  to  her,  his  hands  on  his  knees, 
pushes  his  face  aggressively  up  to  hers,  saying: 

SUB-TITLE:  "MA'AM,  WOULD  IT  BE  CONVENIENT  TO  PLUG 
THAT  EXHAUST  LONG  ENOUGH  TO  ANSWER  ME  IF 
A  *H'  AIN'T  EASIER  TO  WRITE  THAN  A  'J'?" 

To  his  great  surprise  the  Widow  first  stares  at 
him  and  then,  with  spreading  delight,  she 
throws  up  her  arms  and  flings  them  about  his 
neck.  He  is  sorely  tempted,  but  his  strongest 
thought  is  for  his  friend  and  his  promise.  He 
stares  at  the  Widow's  flushed  face  and  pursed 
mouth  for  an  instant,  stammering : 

SUB-TITLE  :  "!F  YU  —  YOU  DON'T  MUH  —  MUH  —  MIND, 
MA'AM,  WE'LL  WAIT  FOR  Pun  —  PA  — " 

Hicks's  sentence  is  broken  off  as  he  looks  up 
and  sees  Fish  coining  down  the  path.  He 


166  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

stops,  open  mouthed  for  an  instant  at  his 
friend's  perfidy,  Hicks  looks  ashamed.  The 
Widow  is  furious,  she  is  mad  enough  to  hit 
him.  She  controls  herself,  but  rises,  choked 
with  wrath,  Fish  waiting  hi  the  meanwhile. 
The  Widow  turns  to  follow  Hicks's  abashed 
look,  and  sees  Fish  standing  there.  She  stares 
at  him  a  moment,  then  with  a  shrug  she  turns 
back  to  Hicks,  and  coming  close  to  him  she 
says,  in  a  low  voice: 

SUB-TITLE:  "MB.  HICKS,  I'D  ASK  YOU  TO  HIKE  YOURSELF 
DOWN  THE  GULCH,  BUT,  —  WELL,  YOU*RE  TOO 
GOOD  A  FRIEND  NOT  TO  MAKE  A  GOOD  HUS- 
BAND.'* 

The  Widow  gives  him  a  long  significant  look, 
and  sits  down  again.  Fish,  thinking  Hicks  has 
got  a  good  call  down,  grins  his  satisfaction, 
nods  head  understandingly,  and  approaching, 
he  bows  low  to  the  Widow,  who  looks  bored  and 
indifferently  at  him,  not  making  any  sign.  Fish 
sits  down  beside  her,  and  clearing  his  throat, 
looking  straight  in  front  of  him  he  begins. 

SUB-TITLE:  "!N  SILVER  CITY,  IN  THE  SUMMER  OF  '98, 1  SEE 
JIM  BARTHOLOMEW  PROMOTE  HIS  OWN  DEMISE 
BY  PAINTIN'  IN  THE  BLUE  LIGHT  SALOON  — " 

Fish  rambles  on  with  his  story,  and  as  he  does 
so,  oblivious  to  what  the  others  are  doing,  en- 
joying his  own  voice  and  story,  and  imagining 
the  others  are  held  spellbound,  the  Widow, 
first  disgusted  with  the  incident,  moves  by 
slow  hitches  nearer  and  nearer  to  Hicks.  DIA- 
PHRAGM DOWN  AND  OUT  AND  OPEN  TO 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  167 

SCENE  40         INTERIOR.  Blue  Light  Saloon. 

Jim  and  the  Chinaman  are  rolling  over  and 
over  on  the  floor,  the  others  are  grouped 
around,  enjoying  the  scene,  more  come  run- 
ning in,  there  is  a  package  of  laundry  open  and 
spilled  on  the  floor.  Jim  gets  the  Chinaman 
under  him  and  begins  to  paint  him  black. 
DIAPHRAGM  AGAIN  BACK  TO 

SCENE  41          EXTERIOR.  CLOSE  UP  same  as  32.  NIGHT. 

Fish  is  spuming  his  yarn,  having  a  fine  time, 
while  the  Widow  is  now  cuddled  up.  Hicks  is 
trying  to  play  fair,  which  gets  on  the  Widow's 
nerves  so  that  she  turns  a  glance  of  disgust  on 
poor  Fish  who  is  saying: 

SUB-TITLE:  "!T  WAS  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  A  CROSS  BARRED  MUS- 
LIN SHIRT  THAT  — " 

The  Widow  turns  from  Fish  with  a  shudder, 
then  beamingly  turns  to  Hicks,  who  feels  for 
her  hand;  she  puts  her  face  temptingly  up  to 
his: 

TURN  CAMERA  TO  FISH'S  FACE,  the  others 
not  visible.  Fish  is  saying : 

SUB-TITLE:  "AND    JIM   HE   THOUGHT  —  WHAT   WAS   THAT 
NOISE?" 

Fish's  face,  in  the  midst  (but  here  back  to 
Fish)  of  his  story;  he  stops  and  turns  a  startled 
look  at  the  other  end  of  the  bench: 


168  SCENARIO  WRITING   TODAY 

TURN  CAMERA  TO 

HICKS  AND  THE  WIDOW,  as  they  break  from  a 
long  loud  smacking  kiss.  Hicks  looks  up  at 
Fish's  question  and  grins  and  blushes. 

TURN  BACK  TO 

ALL  THREE  AS  BEFORE,  Hicks  grinning,  Fish 
staring  at  him  reproachfully,  the  Widow  ig- 
noring Fish.  Hicks  explains  blandly  to  poor 
Fish  that  he  and  the  Widow  have  decided  to 
hitch  up,  Fish  — 

SUB-TITLE:  "PAISLEY  HE  WINDS  HIS  FEET  AROUND  A  LEG  OF 
THE  BENCH  AND  KIND  OF  GROANS.  *LEM,'  HE 
SAYS,  'IT'S  COIN'  ON  SEVEN  YEAR.  WOULD  YOU 
MIND  NOT  KISSIN*  MRS.  JESSUP  QUITE  SO 

LOUD?'" 

Lem  answers,  "Why,  certainly,  the  quiet  kind 
of  kiss  is  just  as  good."  The  Widow,  with  one 
bored  glance  back  at  Fish,  again  wraps  herself 
up  in  bunches  of  love,  Hicks  putting  his  arms 
about  her  in  a  big  hug.  Fish  braces  himself 
and  makes  one  more  heroic  attempt  to  turn  the 
tide  his  way,  turns  around  a  bit  toward  the 
Widow  to  hold  her  attention,  but  not  looking 
at  her.  He  goes  on: 

SUB-TITLE:  "Tms   CHINAMAN  WAS  THE  ONE  THAT  SHOT  A 

MAN  NAMED    MULLINS  IN  THE  SPRING  OF  '97, 
AND—" 

SCENE  42          INTERIOR.  Same  as  40. 

Jim  is  rising  up  from  floor,  leaving  the  China- 
man writhing  with  his  hand  to  his  ear.  Jim 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  169 

is  explaining,  picking  up  the  laundry  and 
showing  the  shirt,  why  he  got  into  trouble 
with  the  Chink,  wiping  his  mouth  of  the  blood, 
when  the  Chink  rolls  over,  pulls  a  gun  and  al- 
most gets  Jim.  He  is  disarmed  and  they  hustle 
the  Chinaman  out,  Jim  telling  them  of  the 
shooting  of  Mullins  the  year  before  in  almost 
the  same  way,  graphically:  DIAPHRAGM  OUT 

AND  TO 

CLOSE  UP  43    EXTERIOR.  Same  as  1. 

Hicks  now  leans  back,  laughing,  chuckling, 
over  poor  old  Fish,  saying: 

SUB-TITLE:  "FROM  THE  START  I  HAD  PAISLEY  HOBBLED. 
PAISLEY'S  SCHEME  WAS  ALL  WRONG.  LEARN  TO 
PICK  UP  A  WOMAN'S  HAND  AND  HOLD  IT,  AND 
SHE  's  YOURS." 

Hicks  gives  a  demonstration,  using  Narrator's 
hand.  "Some  men  grab  at  it  like  they  was 
going  to  set  a  dislocation;  some  take  it  up  like 
a  hot  horseshoe,  and  hold  it  off  at  arms' 
length;  most  of  'em  drag  it  out  before  the 
lady's  eyes.  Them  ways  are  all  wrong.  I'll 
tell  you  the  right  way."  He  describes  a  man 
picking  up  a  rock  to  throw  at  a  Tomcat  on  the 
fence,  pretending  he  does  not  see  the  cat,  until 
he  is  ready  to  throw,  etc.  "Don't  let  her  know 
that  you  think  she  knows  you  have  the  least 
idea  she  is  aware  you  are  holding  her  hand." 
Hicks  illustrates  all  the  wrong  ways  expres- 
sively, and  then  shows  the  right  way,  holding 
Narrator's  hand  down  under  anxl  looking  off 
blissfully  unaware.  CUT  TO 


170  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

CLOSE  UP  44  Hicks's  hand  holding  Narrator's  hand  between 
the  two  chairs.  FADE  THIS  OUT  AND  INTO 

CLOSE  UP  45  Hicks's  hand  holding  the  Widow's  between 
them  as  they  sit  on  the  bench,  the  Widow's 
hand  parts  from  the  clasp  and  there  is  enough 
of  her  figure  seen  to  show  that  she  and  Hicks 
have  gone  into  a  clinch;  the  bench  trembles: 

CLOSE  UP  46    Same  as  32.  FISH'S  FACE  ALONE. 

Fish  again  breaks  off  his  long-winded,  melan- 
choly tale  as  the  bench  shakes  and  he  with  it. 
He  turns  a  look  at  Hicks  and  the  Widow,  say- 
ing miserably: 

SUB-TITLE:  "LEM,  IF  YOU  WAS  A  TRUE  FRIEND  YOU 
WOULDN'T  HUG  MRS.  JESSUP  so  HARD.  THE 
BENCH  SHOOK  ALL  OVER." 

CLOSE  UP  47    EXTERIOR.  Same  as  32. 

At  this  the  Widow  turns  sharp  and  short  to 
poor  Fish,  withering  sarcasm,  referring  to  his 
"Hubbard  squash  you  call  a  head,"  that  she 
has  put  up  with  him  because  he  is  Mr.  Hicks's 
friend,  but  it's  time  for  him  "to  wear  the  wil- 
low and  trot  off  down  the  hill."  Hicks  tries  to 
butt  hi  with  a  defense  of  Fish,  that  he  prom- 
ised him  a  square  chance.  The  Widow  cuts 
Hicks  off  short,  and  turns  again  to  Fish,  who 
sits  with  his  mouth  open.  The  Widow,  seeing 
that  no  words  can  move  him,  rises,  takes  Fish 
by  the  ear,  and  pulls  him  to  feet,  walks  him 
off  up  the  path,  disappears  with  him,  comes 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  171 

back  smoothing  out  her  dress,  and  sitting  down 
by  Hicks,  plunges  into  his  arms.  DIAPHRAGM 
OUT, 

SUB-TITLE:  "WELL,  A  MONTH  AFTERWARD  — " 

SCENE  48         INTERIOR.  Same  as  31. 

Fish  in  his  undershirt,  suspenders  hanging, 
is  giving  devoted  attention  to  getting  Hicks 
ready  for  wedding,  has  forced  him  into  his 
boiled  shirt,  white  waistcoat,  and  is  helping 
do  the  white  tie.  They  have  much  trouble, 
Hicks  miserably  uncomfortable,  stiff,  afraid  to 
breathe.  The  tie  done,  Fish  gives  Hicks's 
shoes  some  extra  licks,  stands  off  to  admire  his 
handiwork,  opens  door  for  Hicks  to  go  out. 
Hicks  feeling  as  if  he  were  in  a  straight  jacket, 
too  stiff  to  speak,  signals  gratitude  to  his 
friend,  —  gulps,  and  moves  like  an  automatic 
out  of  room.  Fish  closes  door,  sighs  heavily, 
then  starts  to  dress  himself,  finds  no  shirt  to 
suit  him,  gets  in  a  wild  hurry,  throws  things 

around  floor.  FADE  OUT. 

it 

SCENE  49          INTERIOR.  Mrs.  Jessup's  room  in  hotel. 

OPEN  DIAPHRAGM  GRADUALLY  on  Widow 
standing  in  front  of  bureau  mirror,  having  her 
veil  arranged,  her  dress  pinned  up  in  back, 
women  fussing  about  her,  in  their  element. 

SCENE  50          INTERIOR.  Hall  outside  Widow's  room. 

Hicks  appears,  painfully  moving  down  hall  to 
Widow's  door,  with  elephantine  grace,  smirk- 


172  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

ing  horribly,  tiptoes  to  door,  thinking  he  has  a 
right  to  go  right  in,  but  pauses  in  a  sudden 
sweat,  whispers  hoarsely  through  keyhole, 
then  knocks  timidly,  hearing  the  women's 
voices  within. 

SCENE  51          INTERIOR.  Same  as  49. 

There  is  confusion  within  as  they  hear  Hicks's 
whisper  and  knock.  The  women  are  scan- 
dalized, Widow  in  a  flurry,  dress  not  pinned 
hi  back;  they  array  themselves  protectively 
about  her,  and  one  goes  to  door,  opens  an  inch. 

SCENE  52          INTERIOR.  Same  as  50. 

Hicks  now  all  of  a  tremble  at  his  temerity,  and 
as  woman  puts  head  out,  he  starts  back  in  ter- 
ror; she  gives  more  than  an  earful,  shoves  him 
away  down  hall;  he  backs  off,  butting  into 
wall,  etc.,  and  out  of  sight,  door  is  closed. 

SCENE  53          INTERIOR.  Same  as  33. 

A  number  of  men  in  office,  some  entering  from 
outside,  more  or  less  glorified  by  their  gar- 
ments. Hicks  comes  down  the  stairs  and  is 
greeted  with  cheers  which  embarrass  him  ex- 
ceedingly, the  men  swarm  about  him,  offer 
their  congratulations.  He  stands  this  as  long 
as  he  can,  then  busting  his  collar  buttonhole, 
he  flings  off  dignity  and  invites  them  all  into 
bar.  They  follow  cheering  and  jostling. 

SCENE  54          INTERIOR.  Same  as  31. 

Poor  Fish  is  getting  more  and  more  desperate; 
no  shirt,  he  is  all  of  a  sweat,  looks  out  of  win- 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  173 

dow  to  see  what  chance  he  has  of  getting  to 
store  without  attracting  attention. 

SCENE  55          EXTERIOR.  Street  in  front  of  hotel,  same  as  1. 

Carriages,  all  sorts  of  rigs,  are  coming  into 
town,  women  with  families  of  children,  etc., 
parading  on  way  to  church,  whole  town  and 
countryside  are  turning  out. 

SCENE  56          INTERIOR.  Same  as  31. 

Poor  Fish  sinks  back  from  window,  his  eyes 
popping  out,  at  his  wits'  end,  sits  down  on  bed, 
mops  brow. 

SCENE  57          INTERIOR.  Bar  of  hotel,  very  plain. 

Hicks  is  standing  treat,  getting  mellow,  great 
excitement,  when  a  boy  runs  in  with  news  that 
the  bride  is  on  her  way  to  church.  He  indi- 
cates outside. 

SCENE  58          EXTERIOR.     Street    in    front    of    Methodist 
Church. 

Up  the  street  toward  church,  comes  the 
Widow  with  her  retinue  of  bridesmaids  and 
neighbors.  The  minister  and  wife  are  waiting 
in  church  door. 

SCENE  59          INTERIOR.  Same  as  57. 

Hicks  takes  fright,  afraid  of  being  too  late,  he 
gulps  whiskey,  and  followed  by  the  crowd, 
rushes  out. 

SCENE  60          EXTERIOR.  Same  as  58.  Closer  up  to  steps  of 
church. 


174  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

Minister  is  explaining  to  Widow  and  her  party 
that  Hicks  has  not  arrived  yet.  She  is  very 
much  upset,  much  commotion  and  indignation 
among  women,  they  know  he  is  hitting  the 
booze,  etc.,  sympathy  for  her,  etc.  Finally 
Hicks  and  his  crowd  are  seen  hurrying  across 
street  from  hotel;  they  come  up,  Hicks,  more 
or  less  hilarious,  is  for  kissing  his  bride  right 
away,  but  is  prevented  by  the  indignant 
women.  He  is  ordered  about,  humiliated,  told 
what  to  do,  is  pushed  into  church,  the  Widow 
waiting  with  her  party.  More  and  more  people 
arrive,  and  crowd  up  to  church. 

SCENE  61         INTERIOR.  Same  as  33. 

Office  is  empty,  Fish  tiptoes  down  the  stairs, 
looking  about  apprehensively.  He  is  much 
disordered,  suspenders  still  hanging,  no  white 
shirt,  coat  thrown  on,  etc.  He  tiptoes  to  door, 
and  looks  out,  finally  seeing  party  enter 
church  he  makes  a  dash  out. 

SCENE  62  EXTERIOR.  Street,  front  of  only  dry  goods 
store. 

Fish  dashes  across  street,  up  to  door,  finds  it 
locked,  sign:  "CLOSED  FOR  THE  WEDDING." 
In  a  worse  plight  than  ever,  afraid  of  being 
seen,  he  scratches  his  head,  and  at  last  desper- 
ate, decides  to  break  in ;  he  steals  about  to  rear 
of  store. 

SCENE  63  INTERIOR.  Altar  of  church,  looking  out  into 
audience,  a  small  country  affair,  rude  and 
simple. 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  175 

Hicks,  stiff  and  uncomfortable,  waits  at  altar, 
church  is  crowded,  bride  is  marching  up  aisle. 
Hicks  feels  terribly  conspicuous  and  looks 
wildly  about  for  Paisley;  he  asks  the  minister 
where  Paisley  is. 


SCENE  64         EXTERIOR.  Rear  of  store. 


Fish  is  climbing  into  back  window  of  store, 
disappears. 


SCENE  65         INTERIOR.  Dry  goods  store. 


Fish  enters,  looks  about,  opens  boxes,  etc., 
finds  shirts,  collars,  etc.,  begins  to  dress  up. 

SCENE  66         INTERIOR.  Same  as  63. 

The  ceremony  is  about  to  begin,  Hicks  and 
Widow  side  by  side,  minister  with  book,  Hicks 
still  fidgeting  because  Fish  is  late.  As  minis- 
ter is  beginning  service,  Hicks  coughs,  has  a 
spell,  halts  wedding,  arrests  minister,  saying: 

SUB-TITLE:  "PAISLEY  AIN'T  HERE,"  SAYS  L  "WE'VE  GOT  TO 
WAIT  FOR  PAISLEY.  A  FRIEND  ONCE,  A  FRIEND 
ALWAYS  —  THAT'S  TELEMACHUS  HICKS." 

Every  one  is  surprised,  wondering  what  it  is 
all  about,  the  Widow's  eyes  snap,  but  minister 
stops  to  argue  the  matter  with  Hicks. 

SCENE  67         EXTERIOR.  Same  as  58. 

Fish,  finishing  his  dressing  on  the  run,  flies 
across  the  square  and  up  steps  into  church. 


176  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

SCENE  68          INTERIOR.  Same  as  63. 

As  every  one  is  rising  and  impatiently  asking 
questions,  Fish  enters  and  pushes  his  way 
down  aisle,  and  much  to  the  Widow's  disgust, 
aligns  himself  at  her  other  hand,  making  his 
excuses  in  stammering  words.  Hicks  grabs  his 
hand  and  congratulates  him  on  being  there. 
The  service  begins,  Fish  keeping  close  to 
Widow.  DIAPHRAGM  TO 

CLOSE  UP  69    EXTERIOR.  Same  as  1. 

Hicks  with  a  laugh,  says  to  Narrator  who  is 
beginning  to  rise,  looking  across  at  R.R.  and  at 
watch,  but  listening  closely  with  much  amuse- 
ment: 

SUB-TlTLE:  "I  ALWAYS  IMAGINED,"  SAYS  HlCKS,  "THAT 
PAISLEY  CALCULATED  AS  A  LAST  CHANCE  THAT 
THE  PREACHER  MIGHT  MARRY  HIM  TO  THE 
WIDOW  BY  MISTAKE." 

Hicks  laughs  again  but  shakes  his  head  and 
with  a  sigh  in  memory  of  Fish,  goes  on.  DIA- 
PHRAGM DOWN  AND  INTO 

SCENE  70          INTERIOR.  Same  as  17.  DAYLIGHT. 

The  spread  of  "tea  and  jerked  antelope  and 
canned  apricots  "  is  over,  people  moving  out, 
the  Widow  dressed  in  her  travelling  gown. 
Last  of  all,  Fish,  who  has  been  hovering  about 
like  a  fifth  wheel,  comes  up,  sniffling  a  little, 
assures  Hicks  that  he  has  acted  on  the  square 
and  he  is  proud  of  him,  shakes  his  hand  hard, 
turns  to  the  Widow,  tries  to  make  her  a  speech, 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY 


177 


gets  stuck,  and  bolts  from  room.  Hicks  sinks 
down  in  the  chair  he  first  occupied,  tired  out, 
the  Widow  looks  at  him  fondly,  then  with  an 
arch  smile  comes  over,  picks  up  the  bill  of 
fare,  holds  it  out  to  him,  he  lifts  head,  grins, 
and  warming  up,  says  he  will  take  a  kiss.  She 
sinks  in  his  lap,  they  kiss.  DIAPHRAGM  DOWN 

SUB-TITLE:  "THE  PREACHER  RENTS  us  A  COTTAGE  FOR  THE 
NIGHT,  AND  THE  NEXT  MORNING  WE  WAS  COIN' 
ON  A  BRIDAL  TOWER  TO  EL  PASO.  ABOUT  TEN 
O'CLOCK  I  SITS  DOWN  ON  THE  FRONT  STEPS 

AND  —  " 

SCENE  71  EXTERIOR.  Front  steps  of  a  small  cottage. 
NIGHT. 

Hicks  comes  out,  sits  down,  pulls  off  his  boots, 
lights  a  pipe,  reminiscing  over  old  times,  quite 
forgetting  that  he  is  married  and  has  any  re- 
sponsibilities. 

CLOSE  UP  72  INTERIOR.  NIGHT.  Close  up  of  a  chair  beside 
a  bed,  head  of  bed  only,  gas  lighted  but  dim. 
A  woman's  shoe  is  kicked  off  and  falls  under 
chair,  and  then  another;  in  a  moment  a  white 
garment  is  thrown  over  back  of  chair,  just  the 
hand  shown  for  an  instant.  CUT  TO 

CLOSE  UP  73    EXTERIOR.  Same  as  71.  NIGHT. 

Lem  sits  smoking,  a  perfectly  happy  and  ob- 
livious bachelor.  He  is  kind  of  wishing  old 
Paisley  would  turn  up. 

SCENE  74          INTERIOR.  NIGHT.  Same  as  72,  close  to  win-  , 
dow. 


178  SCENARIO  WRITING  TODAY 

The  gas  is  turned  off  just  as  scene  opens,  and 
in  the  dusk  the  figure  of  the  Widow  hi  her 
nightgown  is  seen  to  come  to  window,  and 
peer  out,  first  curtain  then  window  is  raised. 

CLOSE  UP  75    EXTERIOR.  Close  up  to  window. 

As  the  window  is  raised,  the  Widow's  face  is 
seen  in  the  opening,  then  SUPERIMPOSED 
ACROSS  OPEN  WINDOW  FLASHES 

SUB-TITLE:  "AIN'T  YOU  COMIN*  IN  SOON,  LEM?" 

CLOSE  UP  76    Cut  to.  EXTERIOR.  NIGHT.  Same  as  73. 

Hicks  starts,  looks  about  in  a  daze,  blinking, 
then  laughs  sheepishly,  saying  so  his  wife  can 
hear  him: 

SUB-TITLE:  "WELL,  WELL!"  SAYS  I,  KIND  OF  ROUSING  UP. 

"DURN  ME  IF  I  WAS  N*T  WAITIN*  FOR  OLD  PAIS- 
LEY TO  — " 

Hicks  is  in  the  act  of  tumbling  off  the  steps,  he 
rolls  over  on  the  ground  away  from  the  house, 
sits  up,  clasps  one  hand  to  right  side  of  his 
head,  passes  the  other  across  his  eyes,  stunned, 
he  sits  there  a  moment,  then  as  he  painfully 
rises,  DIAPHRAGM  DOWN  AND  OPEN  TO 

SCENE  77          EXTERIOR.  Close  up.  Same  as  1. 

Narrator  has  risen,  is  collecting  his  baggage, 
about  to  go  for  train;  Hicks  finishing  story,  his 
hand  to  his  ear,  has  risen  also,  saying: 


A  MODEL  PHOTOPLAY  179 

SuB-TlTIjE:  "I  THOUGHT,"  CONCLUDED   TELEMACHUS  HlCKS, 

"THAT  SOMEBODY  HAD  SHOT  OFF  MY  EAR  WITH  A 
FORTY-FIVE.  BUT  IT  TURNED  OUT  TO  BE  ONLY  A 
LICK  FROM  A  BROOM  HANDLE  IN  THE  HANDS 
OF—" 

Hicks  looks  warily  around,  his  face  glows  with 
pride  as  he  indicates  to  Narrator  who  turns, 
bags  iii  hand: 

SCENE  78         EXTERIOR.  Same  as  1,  but  facing  front  door. 

Mrs.  Hicks  stands  in  the  doorway,  a  com- 
manding figure,  fat  and  smiling  but  with  a 
businesslike  glint  in  her  eyes  and  some  sus- 
picion of  her  husband.  She  bows  condescend- 
ingly to  Narrator.  DIAPHRAGM  DOWN  AND 
OUT. 


THE  END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   8    .   A 


THIS  BOOK  IS  OT  OK  THE  LAST  BATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


INITIAL 

tae    ASSESSED    FOR 
WIUL-  BE   AS>»e  nATP   DUE.     THE  PUNMI-I  . 

TH,S   BOOK  °  VrQ %0  ^ENTS  °N  THE  FOURTH 
"-"«a1  ENTHE    SEVENTH    DAY 


MAY  15   1 


25 

APR    8    1934 
AUQ     7  1934 


LD  21-50m-l,'33 


BERKELEY  LIBRARIE 


1495: 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


